Symbiosis
by expiry 4.23
Summary: The Doctor wanted to study him for hours: John's reactions, his strategies, his mind - and his understated, morbid, socially unaccepted expression of love and loss. No slash, now finished! Post s2.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** If John seems OOC in this - GOOD! He's meant to. All is explained. If the Doctor seems OOC - BOO! I apologise and will work hard to rectify this in future. Yes, this is meant to be slightly subtly distressing. I hope that comes across. It's hard to tell because it's from the Doctor's POV and he tends not to always connect the dots, emotionally. Let me know what you think!  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> All the characters belong to Moffat, Gratis, BBC et al

**Symbiosis**

1. John Watson had a very delightful response to grief.

Or so the Doctor asserted. Having met trillions of creatures spanning more galaxies than he could count, he had seen everything from stoic disregard to violent war, inner peace and acceptance to slow descent into madness. He'd seen denial and failed attempts at resurrection. He'd seen acts of distraction, exertion, stimulation, pleasure, pain. He'd seen them turn to Faith - or, conversely, turn bitterly from it. He'd seen them seek comfort in loved ones or recoil from all touch. He'd heard them talk feverishly of the deceased, fixated, desperate, as if the strength of memory could bring them back. And of course he'd heard deafening silence that choked the air just as, perhaps, those thoughts choked them.

And this - this was quite literally universal. How strange and wonderful, then, to find a planet that encompassed every one of these reactions.

And yet, while the inhabitants subconsciously _knew_ there were myriad responses to the death of a loved one, there was a strange social stigma, an expectation for them to all react the same way.

Tears.

Or, no. No, not quite, he was getting ahead of himself again, for the tears came later. Because first there was supposed to be this period of the griever denying all possibility of the loved one's passing - seeking clues, roving over the situation in their heads, struggling to hone in on a loophole or mistake, something, anything, somewhere it'd all gone wrong - and in finding nothing they were meant to be angry: at whom, though, it was always hard to tell; angry at themselves for letting the loved one die, angry at the loved one for dying, angry at the _reason_ the person died (be it person, illness, accident, etc), or even maybe just angry they couldn't let it go.

Sometimes this was when the tears came. After all, society dictated this was a reasonable point at which the tears could come. But the Doctor knew quite a lot of sentient beings who didn't cry; not crying seemed perfectly reasonable to him. But those around the aggrieved kept asking _why _and insisting upon "letting it all out" and the whole affair was quite troubling.

So onward and upward. This human theory continued that the aggrieved desperately (sometimes silently, other times with a shout that tore the voice from their throats) said they'd do anything to have this sorted: which for some people meant _I'd give anything to have them back again, bring them back, _but for other people was closer to _They're never coming back but I can't stop wanting - just, please, make it stop hurting. I'll do anything if you make this feeling go away._ But the feeling didn't and no one was listening and the bargain went unanswered, and then realisation set in - this was it, this was real, nothing would change what happened and _oh god I must figure out who I am without them_ and the Doctor knew firsthand, 900+ years over, what a painstaking procedure that dissection and reconstruction of existential musculature could be.

If tears hadn't come by now, those around the aggrieved were _deeply distressed_.

The grief was healthy, humans were told. _Don't hold it in. Talk about it. You'll get there, love._

Acceptance. The ultimate goal at the end of the road. There was no prize, no pot of gold, no Emerald City, no marathon high - merely the funny feeling that it didn't hurt as much as it once had and maybe, just maybe you ought to feel guilty for not obsessing the way you used to or for finding someone new and not thinking of them first, or the strange but pleasant sensation of remembering with a mix of happy and sad, smiling despite yourself and not fighting back tears.

Tears.

The predictable response for a human following the loss of one they loved.

But what if there were a way - ways, even - to side-step all that messiness and just come to terms with it all in one go? The Doctor pondered this as he watched the man in the cafe booth turn a page absentmindedly. Why did it always have to go a certain way? Why couldn't extraordinary people come up with extraordinary coping skills?

The Doctor had a theory.

A small one, yes, and difficult to prove, but it had taken root and was starting to grow and needed tending to and lots of water and sunshine - and maybe just a touch of arsenic.

It needed John Watson.

Just from brief observation John proved to be anything but predictable; the Doctor _knew_. He had not responded to loss in the socially expected, socially accepted fashion. John Watson wasn't crying, hadn't cried, wouldn't cry.

In lieu of crying, John Watson was pretending to read.

The Doctor easily slid into the booth seat opposite John. "Hello!" he said brightly when John looked up. Confusion with veiled suspicion.

Good. Suspicion was good. Suspicion kept him sharp.

"Alright?" John replied non-commitally. "What's this about?"

Blunt. Interesting. Obviously intelligent, or else Sherlock Holmes wouldn't have bothered with him, but perhaps lacking either the capability or the patience for subtlety. That said, the Doctor would be a fool to underestimate him - John was likely extremely straightforward in how _he_ expressed his views, but several years of association with Sherlock probably had honed his abilities to pick up on evasion techniques and to acquire some of the detective's deftness for putting two and two together quite quickly. Oh, yes, very good indeed. The Doctor grinned. He could work with this.

"Just noticed your book," the Doctor said innocently. "Very good read. Entertaining. Even slightly convincing. Completely wrong, of course."

"Of course," John said with a sigh, almost as if talking to someone else. He caught himself and straightened up. "Who did you say you were again?"

"Didn't, I'm the Doctor." He smiled again and held out his hand.

Dubiously, John shook it. "Nice to meet you," he said. "John. Doctor of what, exactly?"

"Oh, all sorts, not important at the moment," the Doctor said dismissively. "What's really quite crucial at this moment is the fact you've been sitting in a cafe for nearly four hours since you got off your shift at the clinic - no, I've not been stalking you - reading a book on quantum physics when you've never even liked the subject and haven't touched the stuff since Uni - no, I haven't been at your personal records - you haven't ordered anything beyond a tea and yet they haven't thrown you out so this is obviously a place you frequent quite often, perhaps you see it as a safe haven - don't worry, I'm not about to psychoanalyse you - but the most interesting thing of all is you've been staring at that same page - based on the thumb creases, I'd say for about 30 minutes now - keeping up that farce of pretending to read, only you keep forgetting and staring off into space and _no one has come to disturb you_, friend or wait staff, so they must be quite used to your behaviour and habits and they have their roles in this game of yours and after several rebukes in the beginning they've learned not to break character."

John sat there, stunned. The Doctor could see the wheels in his head turning, a flicker of remembrance, the twinge of discomfort, and predictably the desire to flee - which was why the Doctor went in for the kill.

"So, tell me, John," he concluded, a blinding smile on his face, "_Why are you avoiding your flat?_"

John cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice came out steady. "What are you?" he asked evenly.

What. Not who. Fascinating.

"I already told you, I'm - "

"The Doctor, yeah, got that the first time, thanks," John said softly, with an almost dangerous lilt that reminded the Doctor of someone else.

_Yes._

Oh, this was lovely. Human innovation and the Doctor's own cleverness never ceased to amaze him.

"But there are lots of different types of doctors, aren't there," John went on, still with that almost hypnotic timbre. "Me? I have my MSSB and have practiced in a fair few settings round the world, but judging by your disturbingly accurate deduction skills I reckon you already knew that."

The Doctor stayed silent, waiting with bated breath.

A peculiar smile came over John's features and he laughed humourlessly and continued. "So tell us, Doctor. What are you? Don't think I missed that capital letter. You say it like it's your name, not your profession. Like you've either got nothing else to you and all you are is what's on the surface...or like you've got _everything_ to you, and that's an awful lot needs hiding."

The Doctor waited. He restrained a feral grin at how well this whole thing was playing out.

He had never been more pleased with himself.

And he had never been more pleased with humanity. Just when he thought they couldn't surprise him any further, he saw something new and fell in love all over again. And right this very minute he was terribly infatuated with the concept that was John Watson - this beautiful, haunted, fractured example of what humans were capable of when faced with terrible pain. Healing through osmosis and redefinition! Resurrection through evolution! This specimen kept Sherlock alive by becoming him, but simultaneously did not lose himself completely. _Brilliant! _The perfect hybrid, the perfect duality, the perfect solution to an impossible conundrum. The Doctor wanted to study him for hours: John's reactions, his strategies, his _mind _- and his understated, morbid, _socially unaccepted _expression of love and loss.

Sherlock would be proud.

No. More than proud.

Sherlock would be _intoxicated._

"Got several meanings, hasn't it?" John said innocently. "Doctor. Many incarnations, archaic permutations. Latin: _docere, _to teach. Now, lately, it conjures up an image of those blokes in white coats. But, as I'm sure someone of your obvious intelligence is already aware, it used to refer to religious fellows, Apostles and priests. Astronomers, professors. Scientists and philosophers with mastery of a subject or discipline others may only dream of puttering through, right? And even today's definition - I guess the closest synonym is 'healer,' but that's often inaccurate as well, because those men in white coats harm as many as they heal. Maybe it's because they don't know any better, or maybe because they do but it's all in the name of the greater good, so we try to tell ourselves that it's necessary and justified and that makes it okay. With time we start to believe it, until that one instance when we don't, and that moment - that moment is crippling, because it always strips the nerves to see yourself as you are, doesn't it? But we still get up the next morning and get dressed and brush our teeth and drive to work and do it all again."

He paused. "And your capital letter, Doctor, manages to encompass all those incarnations at once, doesn't it? How many have you taught, studied, absolved, mastered? How many have you hurt _for the greater good?_"

The Doctor swallowed, his two hearts hammering.

"Please. Tell me, Doctor," John said, voice a touch gentler, more human. "What are you trying to teach me?"

In that moment the Doctor was reminded that John Watson the Original was still in there - this hybrid creature still needed reassurance and human connection, no matter how sarcastic and caustic it became.

"Your flat," he said, ignoring the question. "Why have you been avoiding it?"

"I don't know you," John said with a peculiar tone of firm dismissal.

"Then you have even less to lose by telling me," was the Doctor's reasonable reply.

"Not if you're connected to a crowd I find unpleasant," John retorted.

"Mycroft didn't send me," the Doctor said bluntly.

_ Blunt is good. John likes blunt._

John softened a bit, but his eyes were wary at the mention of Sherlock's brother's name. "Well, regardless. You clearly know things you shouldn't."

"Couldn't it just be I'm a genius?" The Doctor gave a winning smile.

John grimaced. "I tend not to play well with those."

"The flat, John," the Doctor said urgently. "This is _important._"

John snapped. "What is it with you and the bloody flat?" he hissed. "Obviously I don't want to go back because of what's just happened!"

"No." The Doctor narrowed his eyes. "That's not it. That's part of it, but that's not all. You suspect something, an idea is forming in that brilliant, hybrid mind of yours and you're terrified of the implications, terrified of what it might mean. So instead of allowing yourself to fully deduce - which would inevitably lead to pondering then wondering then predicting then _obsessing_ then believing then waiting then _wanting_ - and if you're wrong it could hurt so much more than anything has before in your life - you go to work all day then come back to this bloody cafe where no one talks to you and the tea is so terrible you let it go cold."

He took a sip of John's cold tea. God, it really was terrible.

"Was I right?" he asked when John still hadn't said anything.

John had a deeply annoyed look on his face. "We've got...an infestation," he said finally, rolling his eyes.

_Ah. _So he _could_ be subtle. Well, subtle enough for the average human at any rate. It was more than the Doctor had expected. This was so delightful!

He nodded eagerly. "Yes?"

"I'm not a threat to anyone and today's feed of information is quantum fast, so anyone who wants to know anything already knows everything," John went on carelessly, but his eyes betrayed his confusion and hurt. "I'm reasonably sure Big Brother doesn't put much stock in my presence, so..."

"...why is he still watching the flat?" the Doctor concluded with a grim but triumphant smile.

"Yeah, exactly. So I keep thinking of all the reasons he wouldn't have ended the surveillance, except none of them make a lick of sense given the evidence."

"Except one," the Doctor said quietly.

John clenches his jaw. "Right," he says tightly. "Except one."

"Would that one be so horrible?" the Doctor asked, aiming for comforting but coming across curious.

John didn't seem to notice nor care he wasn't good with platitudes. Ah, right, the Doctor remembered. He was a hybrid now.

"Only if I'm wrong," John replied.

"Have you been wrong very often?"

John paused to think. "I've been right when it counts," he said finally.

"This counts," the Doctor reminded him gently. "Go home, John. There's a fireplace and better books and decent tea. And be sure to get some sleep - you'll be doing a lot of research tomorrow."

John smirked and didn't even ask how the Doctor knows what was in his flat. Either he had already come to a conclusion or he didn't care to think of one; the Doctor stared at him, fascinated. What a peculiar and lovely and terrifying thing it must be, to absorb the purest essence of a loved one into your Self so they kept growing and changing and evolving with you, so you might keep them always, protect them and yourself, forever.

Symbiosis, the Doctor decided, was new and heartbreaking. But he would be lying if he said he didn't find the whole affair tragically fascinating.

John smiled at him. "I expect so. Thank you, Doctor. I'm sorry if what I said offended you."

The Doctor shook his head. "No you're not, and I know you meant every word and would say it again in a heartbeat. Strange custom, that, apologising when one isn't sorry."

"Social grace," John said helpfully. "You seem to be a touch lacking. I could give you some lessons - "

"No no," the Doctor said hurriedly. "Thanks, though. Best be off. Lovely chat." And with that the Doctor dashed off to his TARDIS - but not before watching John pay the bill, gather his books and head home.

Closing the door, the Doctor smiled.

He wondered, though. When the dark-haired detective finally returned - and it was only a matter of time now, the Doctor knew - how would John react to having two Sherlocks in his head?

Oh yes. Humanity never ceased to amaze him.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I wasn't going to continue this, but people seemed to want a conclusion, so maybe a few more mini chapters? Let me know! Feedback on their interactions, etc.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Disclaimed

2.

John read once, during his psych rotation in medical school, that it took approximately thirty days to break a habit.

His transition had been slow and smooth - he hadn't even realised he was doing it - but he was still vaguely aware of this tendency he haboured, this peculiar habit of truly _believing_ Sherlock was there, and so he had to force himself not to speak aloud or laugh at a sarcastic joke or scold the younger man for behaving recklessly.

It really was, John mused, a bit like coming off drugs.

He quickly learned little coping strategies, though. Instead of trying to slip seamlessly between the two entities that were Holmes and Watson, he simply...merged them. He wasn't sure how, wasn't even sure he could take the credit for a phenomenon his mind turned to almost out of self-preservation - but there it was. He felt safe again, because John and Sherlock would never be separated again, a dynamic duo forever, they'd always balance each other out. John could possess Sherlock's ability to figure out precise patterns, combinations and crucial details while still understanding the importance of apologising for ruthlessly attacking someone's weakest points. He understood when to keep his deductions to himself in the name of propriety, or when to sneer and take someone down several pegs to intimidate them into talking.

Within a month, he knew how to smile and charm and talk his way out of any situation, unconsciously acquiring an almost mesmerising quality to his presence, all the while taking in every detail of the scene and adding it to his mental hard-drive for later reference. He rarely lost his temper, knowing he was likely to get more information with a charismatic trance than a cold interrogation; and perhaps that's why the hybrid worked so perfectly: on the outside, the world saw perceptiveness and dedication and an impressive ability to get just what he needed (with very little coercion whatsoever) - the essence of Watson, pure and intense - and on the inside his brain worked furiously, a whirlwind of cunning and careful strategies with 30 or more alternates should his first fool-proof plan fall through.

Though it never did seem to fall through.

He wasn't a genius like Sherlock, but damned if he wasn't brilliant. He could _read_ people, in quite a different way to how Sherlock ever did. Sherlock relied on observation of small details and applied them to knowledge to create Fact. To some degree, John did this too - any slightest movement or anomaly (a muscle twitch, a flash of _something_ in their eyes, a too-stunning performance, an over-bitten lip) gave him pause to wonder at their motives and sincerity. But the difference between himself and Sherlock was he understood human emotions, and he knew people could feel more than one thing at once - could have more than one motive and could feel more than one way about it.

So therein lay his success. He could manipulate them masterfully - witnesses and criminals alike - by appealing to their humanity.

And boy, was he good at it.

"That," Lestrade said, cocking his head to the side, "was incredible."

"Just doing my duty for Queen and Country," John said with a small smile. He watched as they took the screaming woman away.

"What gave her away? I was totally convinced..."

"So was I, at first," John lied, since he knew Lestrade would hate looking like a fool. "But she wasn't reacting right for someone who'd just 'lost' a son, you see. There are all kinds of reactions to grief - believe me, I've seen loads of them on the field - but in response to the death of a child? Usually we get things like shock or crying or denial. Anger makes sense as well. She just hungrily wanted to know every detail, like she needed to relive the crime or make sure we'd paid attention to the right bits."

_Not to mention the blood underneath her fingernails is faded but not quite gone, suggesting she washed her hands in a hurry and neglected to scrub all parts. The blood appears to be about two and a half days old, give or take three hours, which her 'alibi' wouldn't account for, _John thought wryly, keeping it to himself.

_The blood pattern on the carpet suggests the body was dragged 3cm; even for such a tiny distance a woman of her diminutive size would experience muscle strain, hence the inordinate level of paracetamol found in her urine sample when she haughtily consented to that drug test. Her clothes are rumpled but unstained - she changed immediately following the murder but has been wearing the new pair ever since. They are a poly-cotton blend, made here in Britain and perhaps serving as a protest statement regarding overseas child labour laws, and are consistent with the others found in her closet, as well as the blood-spattered vest and jeans hidden in air vent... _

_**Considering her fondness for being green and wearing organic clothing, you'd think she'd be a bit more concerned about polluting the air.**_

John almost snickered at Sherlock's impropriety before remembering, with an inaudible sigh, that Sherlock wasn't there anymore.

_**Well deduced, John.**_

Sherlock had become him, now. The morbidity he kept hidden behind that flawless smile.

Or maybe John had become Sherlock, except with softer edges and a very hypnotic charm.

Or both. Intertwined. Inextricable. And yes, of course, he understood how what he was doing was...dubious at times...but it got the bad guys behind bars and it kept the force happy and it made him feel useful. And it was just another means to an end, right? No one was getting hurt. And he had to hold the fort until the Real Sherlock got back, which could take years.

_**Nice to see someone at the Yard with some intelligence.**_

John smirked, head bowed so Lestrade wouldn't see. _You're not real_, he thought with a strange sort of amusement. _You're just the side of me that was always there but afraid to be anything but what society wanted._

He knew this for a fact, because the flesh-and-blood Sherlock would never compliment him in his life; John's essence had...poisoned him somehow, diluted him, and it made John feel incredibly _powerful_ and intrigued and disappointed at the same time.

But he dismissed the thought quickly, finding he wasn't worried overmuch. With a laugh, he bade Lestrade goodbye and told him to give a holler if anything interesting came up.

"So!" the Doctor said happily, as John set about making a pot of tea.

John didn't miss how he'd instantly scrambled the signals, or something, of every bug in the flat upon walking in, using a peculiar, metallic, long shiny stick thing that Mycroft would likely bite his arm off to have a look at.

Then again - Mycroft. Maybe he'd invented the bloody thing.

"How's everything coming along?" the Doctor asked cheerfully.

John wasn't convinced he could trust the man - in fact, just that they were no longer being recorded could be just as troubling as it was reassuring. But either way, he reckoned they had about twenty minutes before Mycroft noticed something was wrong, and twenty minutes didn't suggest a long-term commitment or immediate danger.

John could hold his own for twenty minutes.

He took a leap of faith.

"There's not much in what he left me, I'm afraid," he said, pouring the Doctor and himself each a cuppa. "I know enough now that there's a whole network in the woodwork needs taking care of and he can't emerge too soon or..." he grimaced. "Stuff could go badly."

"Understatement of the century," the Doctor agreed, taking a sip. "Well, no, not quite of the century, sorry, _that _was an overstatement; I'd say the - hang on! This, this tea, it really is much better than the cafe swill, and frankly I'm rather impressed you didn't even try to poison me!"

John gave him a puzzled smile. "I do have morals, you know."

The Doctor shook his head. "Morals, yes, them, of course, but it more comes down to practicality. You see I can be of use to you."

"Can you?" John challenged, but found there was no heat in it: simple curiosity coloured his tone. _Really, Sherlock? _he thought incredulously. _Am I no longer even capable of annoyance now? _"Look, I'm not trying to be impolite, it's just you've got this infuriating tendency to dangle information in front of my face and while I'd normally be content to play cat-and-mouse for hours, we're rather somewhat limited on time here."

Realisation dawned in the Doctor's eyes. "Ah. Yes. Right, of course." He checked his watch. "Seventeen minutes, would you say? Let's get cracking. Show me what you've found."

"I've got...journal entries and a map," John said lamely, getting them from underneath the floorboards. "He knew anything electronic would be intercepted and the map was in a code only three people could decipher."

"Five," corrected the Doctor distractedly.

"Five?" repeated John. Then, understanding, "Oh. Well, four then, at the moment. I've been focused on these journal entries, sussing out his bloody awful script."

The Doctor made a nondescript noise. "I think you'll find the map's more straightforward if you know how he thinks." He looked up at John piercingly. "And if anyone knows how he thinks, John, it's you."

John brushed this off. "You aren't suggesting that I should - "

"No! Don't follow him, you'd be killed in a heartbeat. Woodwork, remember? But you can know where he is, and when." The Doctor shoved the map John's way and snatched the journal out of his hands. "Ten minutes," he added absently.

John ignored him. "That where and when stuff's only accurate if something doesn't, you know, change," he pointed out gingerly, then pushed the thought away, beginning to decipher the codes more quickly now.

The Doctor looked up, smiling with an almost puppy-like enthusiasm. "That's what makes it all so very _exciting_, John. Life's not very accurate, is it? Life's not meant to be lived on paper."

John frowned. "We're talking about a person here, Doctor. Decorum?"

Confusion flickered across the Doctor's face. "What? Oh, yes, course." He regrouped and turned to stare at John intently. "You have to trust him," he said softly. "You have to trust that he knows what he's doing, and that he'll make it back to you alive."

John felt disturbingly dissected, then - sliced open, examined, vulnerable, raw. _He hated it_. "He takes unnecessary risks," he hissed. "He only cares for the end result, even if it means hurting himself and those he loves. Emotions terrify him. He can't connect. He has little sense of self-preservation and refuses to ask for help. He's too brilliant and it's all a bloody game and he finds the danger extremely _fun_."

The Doctor's expression did not so much as flicker. "He sounds very human, then."

John turned back to the map. "Don't let him hear you say that."

"I expect he already knows. Five minutes."

John nodded. "You ought to make yourself scarce. I'll deal with the fallout. I'm told I have a persuasive smile."

The Doctor smirked. "So I've heard. Thanks for the tea and the brilliant chat. Don't lose hope. Think of it like having a bout of flu - always feels worse before it gets better. Be seeing you!"

In a flash he was gone, and John quickly re-hid the map and journal.

Two minutes later, as if on cue, his phone vibrated.

The text read:

_Electrical problems? -MH_

John deftly responded:

_Exterminator. -JW_

_I do sympathise with your plight. Vermin are a recurring issue in this part of the city. -MH_

_I've come to expect it, living here. -JW_

Brief bout of radio silence, then:

_Curious as to how you found said exterminator. His company was not familiar to me. -MH_

John paused. Interesting. And highly unusual for Mycroft to willingly give out information such as that. He rolled this over in his mind before simply writing:

_Freelance. -JW_

There were a few minutes' silence before Mycroft replied.

_Care to go for a walk? -MH_

Outside the window, John could see a familiar car pulling up. He narrowed his eyes in thought, considering all the possible dangerous consequences and outcomes of this rendezvous, before grabbing his coat and keys and heading out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Slightly darker than previous chapters. Okay, quite a lot darker. And oddly sexual at points - but in descriptions of scenarios/not ordinarily sexualised things; no sexy times between characters. Nothing graphic, but yes, provocative. So...you've been warned. And there are a couple instances of cursing.

THANK YOU FOR THE FEEDBACK! Please keep it coming!

**-o-**

3.

The stakes were always rather high with Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft knew; the man ate, slept and breathed high stakes. He could hardly deign to exist without dire threat of imminent death: his lifeblood was running headfirst into the raging flames, fending off a broadsword with a switchblade, fencing with psychotic masterminds on the crumbling ledge of a twelve storey building...in a torrential downpour; his addiction skillfully blurred the line between therapeutic and toxic: without it, the young detective fell to pieces; too much of it, he destroyed everything he touched.

It had been cocaine once, Mycroft mused. He almost missed those days.

But something told him Sherlock would never touch drugs again, now that he had felt the tendrils of orgasmic warmth only an unsolved puzzle could bring, the deafening sound of semtex countdowns and the intoxicating feel of the icy tip of a Colt, cocked and poised, digging intimately into the base of his skull.

Sherlock often said he was "married to his work." Mycroft did not doubt it, for no man or woman on Earth could do for him what solving cases could.

Although, he thought, frowning, one man had come close.

Mycroft did not know the nature of Sherlock's relationship with John. Of course his surveillance would have shown instances of sexual relations, but the fact none were recorded indicated very little as far as personal entanglement went: romance did not necessarily equate sex, just as affection did not necessarily equate attraction. Coupled with the fact Sherlock was an extremely..._difficult _individual to manage (being somehow simultaneously brilliant and idiotic, perceptive and obtuse, logical and childish, stoic and irrational...Mycroft needn't go on), the elder brother might have believed it entirely if John said Sherlock telling him to _shut up _was the younger man's interpretation of "I love you."

Mycroft would be very _very_ hesitant in admitting this, but he was desperately grateful to John Watson for everything the army doctor had done for Sherlock. Mycroft knew he had a tendency to come across as unfeeling - and, truth be told, to a large extent these perceptions and allegations of heartlessness were actually based on fact rather than conjecture; it was difficult to run the nation when _sentiment_ got in one's way. That being said, there was in fact a rather limited list of things Mycroft cared about in the purest definition of the word: when push came to shove, no matter what the political implications, intricacies, dangers, or deleterious after-effects, Mycroft would choose these people every single time.

Mummy and Sherlock.

And John, dear sweet Dr Watson, had looked after Sherlock so often as to almost make the British Government's younger brother a non-issue.

Of course, from the converse perspective, John was now so deeply intertwined in Sherlock's affairs that one could successfully argue he had, yet again, become a liability.

Mycroft highly disliked liabilities. They were so..._messy_.

He idly twirled his umbrella and smiled at John, remembering the last time they had sat across from one another - John's cruel but deserved words that hardly scratched the surface of Mycroft's gilded skin; John hadn't understood _why_, then, hadn't seen all the little details and how they seamlessly came together to fit a picture even Sherlock might have sat well with.

Mycroft had almost - _almost -_ felt a flicker of doubt and guilt then; extended periods of time in John Watson's presence tended to do that to a person, his goodness like a sweet but too-strong coil of smoke from overburnt incense, a smell one didn't quite notice or mind at first (one even grew used to it, _fond _of it, overlooking its presence but certainly noticing its absence), until the one day said individual might realise he had reached for an article of clothing, say, or a cherished book or knapsack, only to discover every item in the flat (_every surface, every fibre, every molecule, even his bloody skin_) smelt like that.

Again. Not a bad smell by any means, but - inescapable. Pervasive. Suffocating.

It must have been hard, Mycroft had once thought distantly, to be around so much virtue and not constantly reek of it.

But the John Watson staring keenly, guardedly back at him now did not bear that same overpowering scent of goodness, kindness, morality, respect, and genuine belief in people for people's sake. Yes, it was still there, Mycroft doubted he'd ever be rid of the stink, but it was _muted _some how - masked, layered, as if someone had foolishly tried to cover the traces of common cannabis and cloves cigarettes with imported cologne and fine cognac.

There was a peculiar glint in John's eyes. It was disarming and held a bit of a challenge; it was _more_ masquerading as _less_; it was the brainiac playing dumb to appeal to someone who did not put much stock in intelligence but rather favoured a full set of lips and a smouldering pair of eyes and a coy smile that asked them, _"Who do you want me to be tonight?"_

Fair question.

Who _did_ Mycroft want John to be tonight?

For all the tea in the China, he could not honestly say.

"Ah, Dr Watson," Mycroft said finally. "It's so lovely of you to join me. I trust you found the journey pleasant?"

John smiled. It was calm enough - mild, easy-going - but there was a serrated edge to it Mycroft might have missed were he not so keen an observer. "Very pleasant. And the company even more so," the army doctor replied. "Mary and I talked about the weather."

Mycroft nodded along, knowing 'Mary' did not talk at all, and wondered vaguely if John was trying to hint at something or was simply lying to show he could. Disliking the feeling of doubt, even for a scant few seconds, Mycroft opted instead to smile more deeply.

Condescendingly.

John didn't react at all. "So," he said briskly, "I'm assuming this is not a social call? Don't get me wrong, I do love our chats, it's more just that since we left things a little - "

He paused, as if thinking how to best describe their last interaction. Mycroft noticed how his hands clenched slightly, even though his face did not change. _Growth in self-control,_ the Holmes brother thought. _Vastly improved from last time. Intriguing._

"- tense," the sandy-coloured hair man decided with a charming smile. "Heated emotions that day. Some unresolved issues, as I recall."

"Just so." Mycroft pulled out a giant folder. "Regarding said 'unresolved issues,' recent activities have..." He searched for a more graceful way of putting this and came up with nothing, so he forged ahead bluntly, "...drawn attention to you, Dr Watson. And I cannot hope to provide adequate protection for you if I don't know what you've got yourself into."

He smiled again.

John smiled back, just as coldly. "I understand your painful position, Mycroft," he said politely, though that edge was back and Mycroft absentmindedly reminded himself to tread carefully. "It's got to be awfully disorientating thinking one minute you're playing the game and you've laid the pieces down nice and perfectly, right?"

Mycroft looked at him indulgently. "You gift me with too much credit, dear doctor. I am not omniscient."

John peered at him. "Aren't you?" he asked, in a voice not meant to be answered. "It must have come as a shock. You had everything just where you planned it. But the next thing you know, your players start ignoring the rules!"

He gave a short, hollow laugh and something in Mycroft's mind prickled with uncertainty.

"Usually there's foreplay, right?" John said coyly, eyes fierce and dangerous, voice disturbingly soft and sweet. "A slow progression, tantalisingly build up? But not this time. With them - they'd been waiting too long. They were hungry, desperate, passionate things. But of course, given the source, that passion was still exacting, calculated, _orderly _in its devolution, and that - that drives you mad."

Mycroft studied him, trying to determine what this phenomenon was.

John noticed him studying him, and his lips twitched ever so slight in that _very_ striking way.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed a fraction and his heart skipped a beat.

"I suppose that had to be the worst of it, for you," John said breezily, studying his nails in an elegant fashion that was altogether foreign and familiar and Mycroft's skin almost - _almost - _began to crawl. "For you, Mycroft, that stung, because it was _controlled _and, let's be honest, the timing was spectacular - and because you knew exactly how they were doing it, you were always one step ahead and predicted their every move. And there was that crucial moment when you could've stopped it but _something changed_, something big, something important, and the game was out of your hands and you, Mycroft, hate letting others handle your toys."

John laughs softly. "The best bit? You, realising you'd been labouring under a misapprehension. It hadn't been your toy for quite some time, long before you let go of the reins. That no one would believe you. That nothing would change. That the truth was repugnant and the lie was so seductive. The best bit was your realising you were too good at your job, and it had cost you everything you loved."

He smiled faintly. Politely.

In that moment, he perfectly ordinary. Mycroft stared.

"Tell me, how am I doing so far?"

Mycroft came back to himself and gave a slight scoff. "You're no Sherlock, that's for certain."

But inwardly, he was...nervous.

"But that doesn't mean I'm not right," John said quietly, that benign smile still etched across his face. "You got upset because the surveillance unexpectedly cut out. Why?"

"No," Mycroft corrected patiently, as if speaking to a child. "I revisited your files because this colleague of yours, the freelance 'exterminator,' as you put it, used a technological device to completely dismantle the signal."

John didn't so much as blink. "Why were you still recording?" he pressed.

"I like to be thorough," Mycroft replied levelly.

"Bedroom practices aside," John quipped, with a casualness that reminded Mycroft fleetingly - dangerously - of his younger brother, "let's be honest, here, Mycroft - and I mean really and truly honest: bare-bones, mythophobia, _never-have-I-ever _drinking games type honest. Did you know from the start, or did you piece it together?"

Mycroft paused minutely, but that pause was all John needed.

"Even from the last chat we had?"

Mycroft had to give him credit: the man's voice was amazingly steady, despite the anger blazing in his eyes.

"There was a plan in place," Mycroft said slowly. "I could do little to stop it, only work to prevent as much collateral damage as possible."

"And he knew." John had a very familiar, narrowed expression on his face. Mycroft winced. It was uncanny, and...much as he was loath to admit it, it hurt to see on someone else's face. Especially when that someone happened to be Sherlock's best friend.

John was staring into space, shaking his head, a sort of darkly appreciative look marring his features. "It's just so...twisted and brilliant, the way you three play. Like children at Snakes and Ladders, only it's abandoned warehouses, Semtex and hair-line tripwires...and, naturally, king cobras, black adders and Ursini's vipers."

_Naturally._

Once upon time, Mycroft noted, that voice would have held horror - or at least discomfort, annoyance or resignation even. Now it just held...analysis. Detached admiration. Clinical consideration.

Mycroft was not one to swear, usually; he thought it uncouth.

But all thoughts of impropriety aside, the only thought running through his head at this precise moment was a rhythmic repetition of:_ This is...well and truly...a bloody fucking nightmare._

Two of them. Together. In one head.

How had John not gone completely mad yet?

"He may not known every detail exactly from the start," John went on in that same detached way, the entity Mycroft was beginning to unconsciously label as his 'Holmes half,' "but he was not exactly in the dark, either. I thought his not caring how the press saw him was just Sherlock being Sherlock, but no, of course not, he knew, he knew the direction it was heading because he knows Moriarity better than Moriarity knows himself."

Mycroft noted the use of present tense but said nothing.

"He knew the plan and counteracted it accordingly. Of course, taking into account the fact Moriarty is clinically insane, more people were at risk than just Sherlock alone. More, in fact, likely, than just Sherlock, I, and you. You predicted and intercepted and bargained down a slice of his pride - inch by inch - as recompense for another life saved, or another building not destroyed. You did it for the 'greater good.' You did it because you knew- better than anyone else in this whole bloody world - how much of a stubborn arse Sherlock can be sometimes, but that even he feels guilt occasionally and the pain of knowing he'd inadvertently caused so much damage - that, you know, would demolish him even more than a smeared reputation ever could. Because after all, he hasn't lost yet. And public opinion is swayed so bloody easily."

John peered at Mycroft strangely. "I don't know if I want to strangle you or thank you," he said with alarming frankness.

Ah. That'd be Watson talking.

"Yes, well. I can save you the trouble of deciding by moving on to the subject of the man in your flat, shall we?" Mycroft smiled again and turned back to the dossier.

**-o-**

"I talked to Mycroft. You came up," John said.

The Doctor smiled. "I thought I might," he replied with a cheerfulness that rang hollow in the spacious flat. "Mentioned the good bits, I hope?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Like your rakish looks? Your well thought-out plans? Your intergalactic interpersonal skills?"

Something in his voice, though, made the Doctor think he was teasing rather than being antagonistic.

He straightened his bowtie. "Something like that, yeah," he replied with just the perfect combination of arrogance and wounded pride. Put on, of course. All for show, wrapped up nicely with a slight pout to match. It was a speciality of his.

John scrutinized him for a few seconds - the Doctor wondered passively what he saw - before returning to his task of translating Sherlock's code. It was a good minute before he set the biro down and looked up again. Face carefully blank, John locked eyes with the Doctor and made a sweeping gesture with his hands that may have been a shrug. It was a strangely elegant move, the Doctor mused.

"It's funny you mention the 'good' bits," John said, tone betraying nothing. "I used to know what 'good' meant but somewhere along the way I found it connotated a whole lot more than I gave it credit for."

The Doctor nodded absently. "'Good' is one of those concept thingies, so variable and open to interpretation. Personally I have trouble putting much stock in it, but that's just me. I know other people - " his eyes flickered to John, though the other man was looking elsewhere, " - need terms to be defined, constructs put in contexts; even if we were speaking different languages or came from different cultures, it'd fine so long as I illustrated my experiences using concrete connections, comparisons, correllations, the meaty stuff. To cross that barrier we'd either have to agree on a singular meaning, or agree to accept each other had his own."

The Doctor wondered, briefly, how John had handled that during the merge. While it was obvious neither Holmes nor Watson had "won," exactly, since all attributes of both men were still equally present in John's psyche, it had to be awfully _noisy _in there! What did that _do_ to a person, the Doctor thought? He was momentarily distracted, mesmerised by the line of inquiry. How did one function in society, constantly questioning if a decision was moral, or right, or practical, or idiotic, or boring, or selfish, or vulnerable, or beautiful, or -

Just - _how, _when there were two very distinct voices screaming at him which to pick?

Still staring into space, eyes narrowed in thought, John hmm'd his assent. "Lestrade said something of Sherlock, once," he said. "That Sherlock was a great man, and with luck someday he might even be a good one."

The Doctor saw immediately where this was headed, but like a train wreck, he could neither do anything to stop it nor look away from the collision.

Wait. No.

_Oh hell._

He was even going to be the one to step on the accelerator.

"And Mycroft said the same of me," he concluded.

He was shocked to find himself grinning again.

John gave him an odd look and he stopped, shrugging minutely in half-hearted apology. It was just, well - the Doctor had to admit, although predictable, the symmetry of this was rather lovely.

In a macabre way.

John studied him again, this time wearing a smile himself. "Reckon he's right?"

The Doctor hesitated and gave the query some honest consideration. "Tricky question to answer, that, because again, it depends what you mean by 'good.' I've saved whole planets and obliterated entire races. I've sacrificed myself for beings I hardly knew and turned my back on my own people for the 'greater good,' as you say. I've been _called_ a good man - a hero, a saviour. But I've also been told death follows me wherever I go."

He stared intently at John. "So what do you think?"

John snorted. "Sounds rather human to me," he said, intentionally paraphrasing the Doctor's earlier words.

It wasn't said in a mocking tone, but somehow that made it worse, and the Doctor didn't know why. No, wait, hang on, yes he did. Of course he did. He knew _exactly _why. But he hated being reminded, and John's Sherlock side knew it.

And in that moment, the Doctor wished he weren't capable of something so human as hate.

He swallowed it down, though, and remembered this was about John Watson, not the hybrid. He couldn't give up now, no, not when he was just beginning to break through.

Not when they were just starting to connect.

"Human, eh?" he said with a smile and a raised eyebrow. "That's not one I usually get, but I'll take it."

John nodded again, gracefully pretending not to see through the act. "Nothing I haven't experienced with Sherlock. Well, beyond that he actually _is_ human - er, we think - and he doesn't get extra bodies if he uses his up - well, except this last time, but that was Molly's doing and kind of a special circumstance, and the body was already dead, besides. He does sometimes steal limbs from Bart's morgue, but I doubt he's stocking up for impending quadriplegia. And while he's definitely a genius, he's not some mega-brained madman in a blue box."

He paused to think.

"Other than that, though, it's nothing new or disturbing or horrible. I mean, it doesn't scare me, and...maybe I should do, but I don't feel the need to draw lines or make a fuss about 'good' or 'bad,' or 'right' or 'wrong,' or any of it. You have advanced kit and you're helping me with the translations, and at the moment, we're allies. I've only been around you a few times but I'm a pretty decent judge of character. Sometimes you put things together faster than even Sherlock could; other times it's like, no matter how astronomically high your IQ is, you don't have a bloody clue. And so in those moments I remind you. Good balance."

He looked like he wanted to say something before suddenly changing his mind and settling on: "It's familiar. Part of me kind of enjoys it."

The Doctor remained very still, unsure how to proceed because he couldn't quite read John's emotional state. "Does it bother you?" he asked finally. "Any of it. At all. Do you have questions - "

John looked up, smiling. "No, it's fine, really. If anything I have more reason to trust you now."

The Doctor looked at him piercingly. "And why the hell is _that_?" he asked.

John shook his head as if it were obvious. "Because Mycroft doesn't want me to."

_Ah_, thought the Doctor with a growing smile. _Brotherly love at its finest._

**-o-**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**: We are getting close to the end now...Made some changes to this chapter. It felt rushed and OOC in some parts. And yes, as always, there were typos (but I have no beta and tend to work quickly between uni and work shifts; I proofread but don't always catch it all. Sorry!)

4.

John found that the days moved alarmingly quickly now that he had a purpose, fading into weeks and months, unmarked by anything beyond the usual - a case, a cup of tea, a chat with the Doctor, a conversation with Mycroft, a criminal mastermind breaking into his flat to leave little gifts while he sleeps - and like an ocean wave they ebbed and flowed and disappeared into a foamy haze.

He kept every one of Moriarty's presents. From foreign trinkets to poisoned chocolates to greying copies of Grimms' fairy tales, John cherished them all.

But none so much as the tiny scrap of paper with John's own handwriting - _eggs, veg, fruit, milk, butter, bread_ - and the bloodied thumbprint (too small to be Sherlock's, too delicate to be John's, but _oh so delightfully suited_ for precise Jim's) that accentuated John's other memo for the day like a bullet point in a PowerPoint presentation:

_Phone_

John didn't even remember writing this; it must be from years ago, and logically could've meant anything. The paper was torn just before John could see what followed - _Phone _what? Was it a verb or a noun? The combinations assaulted his mind in an onslaught almost reminiscent of gunfire.

_Phone him. _No, he'd never write that. Not when he could text, and not when the man was already always on John's mind.

_Phone Harry. _Well, he might've done, just to check in.

_Phone._ A phone. The phone. That phone.

_A study in pink._

Knowing Moriarty, it was rather likely the last one. But in all honesty he didn't care which it was. The important thing was Moriarty knew, somehow, who and what John had become, and just what all these little gestures might mean to him now. For the old John Watson, before the merge and still reeling with grief and the daunting task of living a life without his best friend, would take no interest in overtures such as these. Before, they would have enraged him beyond all reason. John would have forgotten his poor odds of survival - or more likely, would have _counted _on them - and pursued Moriarty himself, rushing in half-cocked and guns blazing, no plan, just terror and blind rage to guide him.

_Idiot._

But now...

Now he wanted to pause and think about just what Moriarty was playing at. John wanted to save Sherlock, yes, but he also trusted the other man to take care of himself. Odd, that. He'd never trusted Sherlock with self-care a day in his life, but somehow, in this instance (and knowing how the younger man thought) he believed he wasn't wrong in doing so. Sherlock would not fail in his overtures with Moriarty, because they were too similar in thought frequency, stimulation, faults, arousal, needs. Sherlock would be successful because he was Moriarty's equal.

They were both something out of a fairy tale.

Moriarty's overtures towards John, conversely, were not invitations to come out and play. Not exactly...not quite. It did smack of Hansel and Gretel, the clever witch luring the damaged children from a dysfunctional homelife one sickly sweet at a time. But in the end, they killed her and felt nothing. John wasn't capable of that degree of detachment unless he was out in the field or saving Sherlock from his own idiocy. And John would not have that as motivation, because he knew somehow that despite both men's flair for the dramatic, Sherlock's battle with Moriarty would be private, all pretense dropped, all masks cast aside.

For their final act, intimacy was required.

For all the merge had given him, John knew he still was hardly a replacement for his best friend. His fascination did not extend to full out sociopathy, and without a reason to kill the man, John would merely freeze. He'd waver under Moriarty's penetrating eye and try to take in as much of him as possible - eyes roving hungrily and fearfully while his brain instructed fervently for him to _shut up and focus and then you can forget this ever happened - _just as he had done so many times with Sherlock and every other fascinating but dangerous thing he'd stumbled upon since.

This was foreplay, yes, but John could hardly consummate. And Moriarty knew it. They both knew John was no match for him, and that Moriarty would smile predictably and sigh and do what must be done, but he'd take no pleasure in John's destruction. It would be too easy. Where was the _challenge_? The thrill?

_Where was the release?_

No. Wait.

Unless -

_Ah. Of course._

Things were different, now. Moriarty's hand was heavy, but it wielded deftly and left no marks. His interest in John was, while personal, still nothing to do with the army doctor. The motives and desired ends had not changed, merely the means toward it. Moriarty wasn't sending threats of Sherlock's impending death, or appealing to John's morality; he was..._courting_ him. Which was to say, he was baiting him; which was to more _accu__rately _say, he was baiting Sherlock, because for Sherlock the two really were one and the same.

For John, these little tokens were tantamount to a kiss that drew blood. And in that instant he knew what Moriarty was doing.

Moriarty, bless his soul, was _reminding_ John.

As if he could have somehow forgotten - as if he didn't already obsess over the fact Moriarty planned to destroy every last bit of him; as if he didn't already ruminate, daily, about Sherlock's nonexistence and John's own distorted perception of the world and his unintended forged purpose; as if he didn't constantly drown in terror when he shut the light at night, thinking obsessively that time was moving too quickly and too many people knew and there were so many ways it could go wrong - but that maybe, just _maybe this time, _no one would get killed for real -

...and John felt his heart flutter as he involuntarily laughed, drowning in imagined lilting Irish tones (softened with that wide-eyed helpfulness that made John want to snarl and laugh at the same time): _Here, sweetheart, let us give you a hand; it must be awfully trying, for you, wading through all that simplicity -_

How...remarkable.

Terrifying, yes, but rather brilliant too. A tangential conquest...and none of it about him. The best part was that Moriarty needed to destroy all of Sherlock, and if some of him remained in John - well. The answer was simple, really. Child's play. Two birds with one stone. And so began another game - but with just a touch of thoughtfulness born of insight rather than emotion, because while Moriarty may lack true understanding of concepts like grief and love, he still could _fathom _them. He had a touch more connection to the regular world and _knew _people, even if he didn't _feel _as they did. He knew what stimulated Sherlock and incensed John, and what impassioned them both.

That was the most fascinating thing of all: how well Moriarty played on _both._

Moriarty was...loathsome. And beautiful. And enrapturing, and John couldn't stop thinking that he finally understood why Sherlock hunted him. The man was insane but brilliant and so much more - gloriously, perfectly more -

And John could see that now, because Moriarty kindly, fastidiously ensured he would never forget.

The bloodied paper was framed and hung, lovingly, on the mantle wall.

John sipped his tea and texted Lestrade another winning deduction that would close their current case. He stared at the empty sofa, untouched violin, empty fridge, one mug, clean flat - and he steepled his fingers below his chin. The clock ticked. Outside, London traffic roared.

His pulse thrummed rhythmically.

He read another fairy tale.

**-o-**

"Everything you said checked out," Lestrade said, coming back into the room. "Forensics confirmed twenty minutes ago." He chuckled darkly. "Shame they took 48 hours to prove what you knew in fifteen seconds. How did you know, anyway?"

John wasn't like Sherlock. He didn't need to show off - in fact, found it tedious. But at odd moments, off moments, when he really took the time to think about how he'd deduced something in lieu of just proclaiming it to be so, he found his justifications to be neither solely instinctual nor observational - they were fascinatingly _both._

But the magical part -

The magical part was there was nothing strange about that at all.

People were that way, John knew. He saw them do it, he saw the way the thought and he experienced how the felt. People were a complicated mass of logic and emotion, to varying degrees existing on a spectrum, and they took in information and consciously and subconsciously attempted to force this input to conform to their views based on where they fell on that continuum. When John merged, he didn't become less human. To the contrary: he became more so, because _human_ could mean anything from sociopath to martyr, or _both at once_. And what Mycroft and the Doctor didn't seem to understand was that this _both _was not always dangerous - people were _both_ all the time and the world didn't end: the world rather depended on it, in fact.

Or - no.

Maybe they understood perfectly, and they feared something else.

_What could be more important than the world?_

"The ink-stains on her fingers," he answered distractedly, remembering that thing called conversation. "And her desperation."

Never underestimate the power of desperation, John knew. It masqueraded as many things and came in various shapes, sizes and strengths, but ultimately the punch it packed was always two shades deadlier than anticipated. When one felt they still had a chance, even the slightest hint of one, they clung to hope: hope was softer, even to hold on to it felt like clutching fire - and that pain was better than the alternative. John had seen, more than once, the very second someone gave up, stopped fighting, lost all hope. The fading light from the eyes of a corpse; the final flicker of a candle going out. Nothing but vapour remained; vapour and smoke and charred skin. And that very often led to despair, but sometimes something else rose up: something furious and howling, choking, demonic. Something poised for action. Something much fiercer and uncontrolled, and oh so aware. No longer did the person believe in miracles; they only believed in results. And they would do _anything_ to get those results.

_Desperation._

Desperation was hope with a knife, matted hair and a God complex, after four red-eye flights and six bullet trains across five different countries, chasing shots of tequila with a cocktail of methamphetamines and Oxycontin.

Desperation was thirst and gunpowder.

Desperation was hope with nothing left to lose.

When John stared into the mirror every morning, he tried to tell himself he was still seeing hope staring back at him in those familiar brown eyes.

(_Every part of him knew he was lying._)

**-o-**

"Are we ever going to talk about it?" the Doctor asked conversationally, tinkering with something shiny and explosive.

John tapped his foot. "Why do you keep bringing it up? One visit, can't we go one visit without you asking that?"

"Here's the thing, I don't think we can," the Doctor replied, still not giving John his full attention. "With every day you stay like - however you are - the less able we'll be to change you back."

"Shockingly, I'd thought of that," John said, so polite it bordered on derision.

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "So what's the problem, then?"

John stared. For a genius, the Time Lord could be disgustingly dense at times. "So...I don't care to turn back," he said in his kindest _you're an idiot_ voice.

"...Right," the Doctor said, freezing. "Okay. Right."

He stared at John for a tick then stared pointedly _not_ at John.

"Give me about thirty seconds of silence, if you would, John; I need to cogitate. Please and thank you."

John nodded absently, turning back to his own work.

_Cogitate._

Really?

Had it honestly not occurred to any of them that he was happier this way?

**-o-**

They were stood over the pictures, closely examining each one, when Sally noticed the smell.

She wrinkled her nose.

Just a hint, barely there, both acrid and alluring and stirring up many a memory of two many drinks in badly-lit pubs while someone who underestimated her strength and tenacity swung a hairy air round her waist and slurred cockily, _"Go on, then, love, just a one-off, I know you're practically gagging for it, if that get-up tells me anything it's that you haven't had a proper shag in weeks - "_

She shook off the memories and asked, "How long have you smoked? You're a doctor."

He didn't look up. "Yeah, I know," he said with a teasing note in his voice. "Got the degree and everything."

"No, you know what I mean." Sally gave him a look his didn't see. When he didn't say anything, she added, "Like how bad that is for your health, yeah?"

He got a strange look in his eyes, then smiled. "Huh. Never pegged you to be someone uncomfortable with cigs. You never seemed to mind when Anderson bummed one or two off Lestrade."

She huffed, putting her hands on her hips. "I didn't. I don't have a problem with it," she answered. "It's more like...it's you, though, right? Just doesn't make sense, you being a doctor and all. You're the one always remarking on what's killed someone, or what to watch out for, or - dunno, just seems like you'd be the one going on about how bad it is for your health, too, yeah?"

He shook his head. "Right. Here's the thing, people are incongruous and if you expect them to behave the same way all the time you'll likely be disappointed. Besides, I could make a convincing case about how just about anything can be hazardous to your health."

"Yeah?" Sally said challengingly. "Prove it."

"Well, I need something innocuous first. How about toe nail scissors. As a doctor, I could easily tell you how dangerous toe nail scissors can be for your health, and I don't mean obvious-accidental-stabbing," he said simply, going back to the photographs.

"John." She rolled her eyes, suddenly feeling like she didn't want to get into it with him.

"For starters, unless you sterilise them after every use - "

"Oi! Come on. How long, then?" Sally asked, annoyed.

"Past few months."

"Why?"

"Helps me think."

"Lots of stuff could do. Couldn't you drink more coffee or something?"

"Caffeine is, actually, a more lethal substance than nicotine," he replied. At her suspicious look he laughed. "It's true, look it up!"

"Right," she said slyly, leaning in, "suppose that's so. But it wouldn't be at the doses you're takin' in, would it, judging by the smell of your shirt, or else you'd be dead already."

See? She wasn't as thick as people thought. It was about time they realised that.

But one look at John's face told her he already had. Or at least some part of him had. He was smiling at her - a strange, calculating smile that intrigued her and put her off at the same time, but she supposed she wasn't worried overmuch because it was _John_ - safe, smart, tactful, loveable John - and yes, he was sometimes detached and creepy, and right, okay, he could go off on a suspect with words sharp enough to make any hardened criminal cringe, but it was obvious he still felt something and was affected by what he did; it was obvious he was brilliant, but thank God, he wasn't the Freak.

"Sally, look, nothing's wrong, I'm not going to keel over tomorrow from lung cancer or an aneurism or anything like that. Things are just a little complicated right now so I slipped into an old habit," the man explained. "Luckily I have a few friends watching my back. Everything works out in the end, doesn't it?" He paused. "Well...except for Mr and Mrs Gold, apparently. I expect the brutal stabbing rather threw a spanner in their evening plans."

It wasn't so much the off-hand, highly inappropriate comment as the earnest tone that set Sally snickering - to her abject horror.

_She never laughed at a crime scene. _Only freaks did that.

Didn't they?

John gave her a sideways glance and grinned, and the tenseness of the moment passed easily.

When Sally had regained her professionalism she glanced back at him: he was back at the photographs as if the slip in decorum - much less the entire conversation - had never happened.

"Right," she said unnecessarily, mostly to herself.

She shook it off and did the same.

**-o-**

It took the Doctor thirty seconds to cogitate - or, to be more specific, to come up with the very beginnings of a plan. Coming up with the rest of the plan, the proper plan, actually took quite a bit longer, because he did it in sections.

Fixing a loose wire in the console of the TARDIS, he planned.

Sat on the sofa at the Ponds' home, chatting over tea, he planned.

Saving a nice old woman from an infestation of transdimentional photophilic carnivorous cnidarians, 1000 years in the past, he planned.

Two million years in the future, handcuffed to the bed and rather enjoying it as River - well, that bit wasn't important. What mattered was that he _planned._

(He was frightfully good at multitasking.)

And finally, when _plan_ became _Plan_, he made his move.

One year into the future (wibbly wobbly, timey wimey, all a bit jumbled but he'd better get it right this time), he stumbled out of the TARDIS and into a very dark, dank sewer and stared straight into the unnaturally bright eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

"Hello!" the Doctor said brightly, tossing three boxes of nicotine patches at the detective's feet. "I'm the Doctor, and let's just go ahead and dispense with the pleasantries because judging by your lack of satchel and strident housing accommodations I would guess you don't have the luxury of entertaining long chats. Now," he went on, pacing, "if you're half as clever as they say you are, you've already dismissed the impossibility of my spontaneous arrival because it falls outside of your realm of belief, and you know I'm no threat to you for so many obvious reasons it'd be insulting to your intelligence for me to even enumerate them all. Also by now I'd wager you've made precisely 52 deductions about me - sorry, 27 of them are wrong - and have it narrowed down to three probable reasons why I'm here."

He paused, smiling. "And that little voice in your head, the one you hate to listen to because it isn't _logical_ and is so infuriating because sometimes you _know_ _it's right and have to ignore it anyway_ - well, train your ears, detective, because that little voice is telling you which one it is. And it's _right._"

"John," Sherlock said, face impassive but eyes flickering with something very telling: concern. "He's not in any immediate danger, or you wouldn't be here. It's obvious you've just left our flat - tweed is thick and retains scent, so much so in fact that I'd recognise the combination of orange extract, carpet cleaner, burnt toast, dried blood, lavender dish soap, cheap brandy, formaldehyde and dust anywhere (though the faint traces of cigarette smoke are new; it isn't on your hair or skin, just your clothes, suggesting you picked it up rather than brought it in - I don't suppose John's been at my stash?) - even in this overpowering olfactory storm. It's possible you've killed him and felt a need to flee the scene - doubtful; no traces of blood on your shoes or fingernails, and judging by the motor oil on your fingers you were fixing an engine within the last two hours and haven't been able to wash your hands, so any injury or murder involving spilt blood is thus eliminated. The possibility of poisoning or fatal blunt force trauma remain but your coming to see me negates anything slow-acting (as that would give John time to fetch help) and while your physique suggests you are clearly physically fit, your musculature is more suited for running, not combat, whereas John's form is shorter and bulkier and his combative skills are not to be trifled with. From the narrowing of your eyes when I mentioned permanent incapacitation I deduce you've killed before, but from the slight twitch of your left hand at that proclamation I gather you experienced tremendous guilt afterwards. You didn't come here to gloat over John's condition but to warn me of it, suggesting you believe I can help him or are working off some maudlin notion I feel some sort of affection for him and will cooperate. This tells me you've not only been in our flat but have also been speaking at length with the man, rather than basing your assumptions off newspaper clippings and the rumour mill."

He paced furiously. "I have worked incredibly hard to make myself untraceable and no doubt you know that, based on how long it took you to find me; yet, you did the legwork anyway. That suggests you not only have acquaintance with John - you care about him, or at least feel the inclination (no, the deep compulsion) to help him, even though it will bring great risk to all three of us at a personal level and the mission itself on a larger scale. Were John in immediate danger, you would never have left his side. But it is your belief that he is in chronic danger, to such a degree such that you sought me out even likely knowing, whether by deduction or John's information, precisely _why_ I did not want to be found; you don't like to endanger people, especially not strangers who have not wronged you in any way, but you're a dab hand at it if the stakes are high enough. You hide a lot, Doctor, but your bow tie and your smile give you away: you attempt to appear hapless and unassuming, and to a large degree you are; but to an even larger degree you're nothing like what you attempt to portray. No, you are highly intelligent, manipulative, dangerous and not altogether terrific at making connections and thinking ahead; you will go to nearly any bounds to aid someone in need, but you stay the most grounded when you remain disconnected from any situation you feel is too emotionally oversaturated."

A faint flush had spread across Sherlock's cheeks. The Doctor watched, slightly unnerved.

"And let's just reiterate, so that everyone is clear on one aforementioned fact, Doctor, if nothing else: you knew how precarious the situation was. You knew coming here might destroy everything. And yet you weighed the pros and cons anyway, and _you found his life to be worth more than two years' work_. Why?"

Sherlock turned sharply to face him, an ugly look on his face.

The Doctor just peered steadily into his eyes. "That's the funny thing about connections, though, isn't it," he said slowly, "because it's not just his life I'm trying to save by coming here. And that voice is screaming in your ear again because it knows you know that too."

Sherlock looked practically murderous.

"Sherlock," the Doctor said quietly. "Forget the greater picture and emotional impracticalities and the fun of a good puzzle just for a second. Who are you doing this for?"

Sherlock gave him a haughty look. "Myself, obviously."

The Doctor rolled his eyes. He knew how to handle this.

"Sherlock, shut up," he said smoothly. "I understand what's going on here, but it's difficult to watch. You credit yourself with genius then disgrace yourself with delusion. It's fine, it's expected, it's _human_. But it's beneath you. You claim to have an exceptional brain but I suppose you've let it atrophy, because this question - at least in my book - really is not such a toughy. Yes, alright, you have to dig a bit deep, look past the surface and all that. I suppose it feels like a trick, I didn't warn you, alright, it's true - but I shouldn't be expected to, should I? The oversight lies in your hands. I think you'll find the simplest answer is not always the correct one; you've fallen into the habit of underestimating as a coping mechanism, because God forbid there should be something the Great Sherlock Holmes doesn't understand. How suffocating, to know the answer but still find it too..._complicated_ to comprehend."

The Doctor paused, waiting for the reaction -

Ah._ Yes._

_That's the ticket._

For the briefest of moments, Sherlock looked haunted. His whole face collapsed and it was everything he never felt, or always felt, or - the Doctor didn't know. This unguarded second might have contained an eternity; black holes and supernovas and neon lights and the screech of violin strings and warm skin.

And then it was gone and Sherlock was blinking, as if confused.

"Tell me," the detective commanded, very much in control again.

The Doctor beamed.

**-o-**

It was embarrassing for someone of his species, yes, but the Doctor had to concede he'd never been terribly..._precise_ about time. He overestimated or underestimated, he forgot, he got distracted, he neglected to pay attention in the first place. But in this instance, he could say with absolute certainty he knew how long the affair took.

20 seconds for Sherlock to deduce, comprehend, deny and delete all the details that made no sense to him (_aliens? Honestly_).

15 seconds to filter out only the pertinent information.

10 additional seconds to analyse said pertinent information, transforming it into algorithms and combinations he could combine and change to determine how it affected things - personally, globally, universally.

5 more seconds to overcome his overwhelming urge to view this as an experiment and remind himself, grudgingly, one only experimented on friends with their consent.

And finally, 2 seconds to make a few crucial mental edits to the map.

The Doctor smiled. "I see you've done all the deduction we need, so I'd best be getting back. He'll never noticed the difference but - " he shrugged, smile broadening, " - you never know how quickly the times do change, do you?"

Sherlock ignored this, likely preferring to believe the man was mad. "Doctor," he said quietly, face carefully blank. "Tell John - " He broke off. His mouth opened and closed a few times and he finally gave up with a snarl, clenching his jaw tightly. "Tell him he's not a _hero_," the detective sneered finally, turning away.

The Doctor's smile saddened as he felt a wave of sympathy. "I'll make sure he takes care of himself," he translated softly.

Sherlock nodded sharply. Some of the tension left his stance.

The Doctor would never tell the high-strung detective this, but as he went back to the TARDIS to pop back to 221B-last-year he couldn't shake the thought that Sherlock had looked very much like John, just then.

It was a comfort.

The Doctor didn't know why.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: IMPORTANT** **NOTE: this chapter reads backwards, intentionally! **Just to allay any confusion. Or to be the cause of further confusion. Whichever.

Also this was meant to be the final chapter. Now I'm not sure. It's really all over the place - it's meant to be, hence my decision to end it this way. But I could be persuaded to clarify some things in an epilogue or something. Thoughts?

* * *

><p><strong>ALL CLEAR?<strong>  
>The Doctor looked out the TARDIS window and knew he'd made a mistake.<p>

Mycroft calmly took a sip of tea and ignored the slight shaking of his hands.

Sherlock cocked the gun and aimed it, with deadly precision, at the man who once enthralled him.

John shivered, breathless, and felt nothing as the blood dripped off his fingertips.

Moriarty foolishly stained the carpet, and when the light left his eyes it was not a parlour trick this time.

* * *

><p><strong>T minus 5...<strong>  
>"You know I'm going to have to have him killed," Mycroft said conversationally, as if mentioning the weather.<p>

Sherlock winced. "No, I can do this. You know what this has whole affair has cost me - do not take away my one chance at - " he cut off with an odd sort of choking noise and fell silent. Taking a breath and a second to compose himself, he began afresh. "If I could just _talk_ to him, you know I could make him see reason."

"What, and risk everything you've worked so hard for?" Mycroft looked at him bemusedly. "Is he really worth so much?"

"You underestimate him," Sherlock said firmly, in an uncharacteristic display of devotion.

"Perhaps," Mycroft conceded. "But I believe you overestimate yourself. Tell me, dear brother, which mistake is more dangerous in the long term?"

* * *

><p><strong>4...<strong>  
>The problem with time, the Doctor mused, was it wasn't linear. Things - changed. They rotated and mutated and went spherical and pearshaped -<p>

And sometimes people were saved because of it, and sometimes people weren't.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," the Doctor murmured quietly. "I thought if I talked to you earlier, things might change - I could stop it. I didn't count on still it happening in a different way. I didn't count on it being fixed."

Sherlock's eyes took in the scene almost ravenously. He watched as John - his John - lovingly tucked a strand of hair behind Moriarty's ear.

"I suppose I should have done, though. There's enough of him in there to still feel love, but he's merged so much that the puzzle, the fascination is worth more than...salvation," the Doctor went on, as though Sherlock couldn't see that for himself.

Sherlock whirled on him. "You were supposed to be protecting him!" he hissed.

The Doctor felt very old, then. "I know."

* * *

><p><strong>3...<strong>  
>John woke up in the familiar bed, rolled over and stared into those bottomless eyes.<p>

"Who am I seeing now?" he murmured. "Jim or Moriarty?"

The other man looked at him with contempt and adoration. "That rather depends on who _I'm_ talking to, pet," he shot back in a voice that could cut glass.

John smiled. "You've always had all of me," he said, closing his eyes again. "Pick a side and it's yours."

"I haven't always, and I still don't now," that Irish voice growled.

John didn't even flinch at the familiar sensation of a knife pressed against his chest.

* * *

><p><strong>2...<strong>  
>"They will come looking for me," John said, struggling against the ropes, but he found his fight to be half-hearted.<p>

"Oh, I count on it," Moriarty said eagerly. "But they'll never find you! Well, Sherlock might, but that's rather the point, isn't it?"

He laughed.

John was horrified to find he, too, was fighting back a smile. "It's actually kind of touching, really, that Sherlock means that much to you," the army doctor muttered. "I wish you'd stop bloody trying to kill him - he's my _best friend_ and that kind of matters, a bit, in my book - but it is nice to see you connected."

Moriarty was staring at him. His lip curled. "_When will you stop loving Sherlock more than you love me?_"

John gave him a look, irritated. "I expect it might be right around the time you stop tying me up and torturing me."

Moriarty frowned. "Really? It's that simple?"

"Well, no, but it makes a difference."

"Hmm. I need to think about this for a bit." Without another word, Moriarty left the room and John shook his head in annoyance, struggling once more against the ropes.

* * *

><p><strong>1...<strong>  
>The Doctor looked at John and swallowed. "Hello," he said quietly.<p>

"Hello," John said evenly. The bonds cut into his wrists. He was hungry and tired and everything hurt - but the worst part was he wasn't ready to quit yet. One thrumming image came to mind. "How's Sherlock? Have you spoken with him?"

"I have," the Doctor said in that same soft tone.

"Well? Is he all right?" John whispered anxiously.

The Doctor nodded. "He will be." He narrowed his eyes. "Will you?"

John's eyes fluttered shut. "I've endured worse."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," the Doctor countered.

"As long as Sherlock's all right, I'm fine," John said, but he knew his tone betrayed something because the Doctor's eyes narrowed.

"I could take you with me," he said to John, eyes hopeful. Then his face fell. "But you...don't want to go."

John winced. "Think of the repercussions. Him coming back and finding me gone," he pointed out, trying to smile. "Sherlock will save me. Or I'll escape."

But they both knew it was a lie.

* * *

><p><em><strong>BLAST OFF -<strong>_  
>"You," breathed Moriarity, eyes gleaming with intensity, "are an impossible thing."<p>

"Am I?" asked John, then cursed himself for it afterwards. He should know better than to bait the bear.

"Oh, yes," Moriarty insisted. "That, and so much more. Would you like a glass of milk? I was just thinking of having one. Strong bones and all that." He walked out of John's range of vision, calling back over the noises of clinking glasses, "Plus I would imagine it brings back fond memories of your dear detective, and remembering is important, doctor."

He walked back, two glasses in hand. "Remembering is a crucial part of grief," he beamed.

The madman extended a glass to John who made the tiniest gesture of polite refusal.

"Well, come on, then, why not?" Moriarty looked melodramatically exasperated. "It isn't poisoned. See?" He took a sip from John's glass and extended it once more.

"That's doesn't reassure me, as it happens," John said steadily.

There were myriad toxins the consulting criminal could have built up a resistance to by increasing his exposure over time; the milk diluted the dose, an perhaps the tiny sip was not dangerous but a larger swallow would be fatal; undoubtedly Moriarty had known John would refuse at first, and would wait to slip something in it until the very second before handing the glass to him a second time; Moriarty could be the harbourer of a deadly disease he himself was immune to but exposure to his bodily fluids would destroy another; or, murder attempts aside, the milk could simply be drugged - with what, John did not care to speculate, and Moriarty either was not susceptible to such a high or low or he just did not care if he lost a calculated fraction of his inhibition and control in front of John - John was not enough of a challenge, perhaps, to worry him.

Or there might be nothing wrong with the milk at all. It could very well be a good old-fashioned mind-fuck.

He could hear Sherlock's voice, deep and goading, not quite a sneer yet but oh so close - "_Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate_, John! Plurality should not be posited without necessity!"

Well, yes, that was a fair point. Except -

_The simplest explanation is usually the right one; one should only consider the more complex ones when he has no other option. _

Yes. Right. Except -

_If it walks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck, it probably is a duck!_

Yes. He knew that. _**Except **_-

Occam's razor didn't apply with men like Moriarty.

And he could refuse the milk - the drink itself was not important - but the _gesture_, the decision he made right this very minute would set the tone for the entire evening. It would dictate to his mind how much Holmes and how much Watson to utilise; it would send a message to Moriarty that may or may not be interpreted as he meant it to be. The man was dangerously unpredictable and off-balance and 20 steps ahead in a game John didn't even know the rules to.

He only knew this: _focus; think; observe._

_Don't try to keep up with him - your brain's not big enough and you don't know all his traps and mines. But keep him ahead of you. As long as he's ahead of you, you can think during all those moments he can't see you. As long as he's in his own head, you're invisible to him._

Moriarty wouldn't want him dead, not yet. Eventually, oh yes, indeed. Not just dead - annihilated. But for now, Moriarty would want to play and explore.

See what made John tick.

What did make John tick?

Swallowing convulsively, he barely contained a panicked laugh. _And so it begins_, he thought, paralysed and exhilarated at the same time. But of course, who was he trying to fool? His mind had been made up the moment Moriarty took a sip from his glass, and John knew it. He very well almost _did _laugh then, because it was such a familiar feeling - it was so new to him but not new at all, it was so -

_Sherlock._

His vision swam for a second and his mind went blank. He took an inaudible, shallow breath and stared deep into Moriarty's hypnotic eyes. Somewhere inside of him, something fractured and tore away like dead flesh and -

"Cheers," he said with a polite smile, lifting the glass. "To our health."

Moriarty looked surprised but delighted, and elegantly raised his own. "To our health," he repeated airily.

Consulting criminal and army doctor clinked glasses and downed the milk together.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Epilogue requested. Nothing is actually cleared up in this, but it is marginally less depressing. Happy ending FTW! So, here! Have at it.

Apologies for lack of beta! Again.

* * *

><p>6.<p>

The tableaux was revolting and compelling: John's too-thin frame cut a sharp whip in the dim light of the room; he had long ago given up trying to stem the flow of Moriarty's bleeding, an expression of disappointment and relief on his face, but the blood had yet to dry on his hands - it glimmered sickly and shone too starkly against John's unnaturally pale skin. It dulled, however, as it seeped into the carpet, deep and viscous and dark as wine; its lustre gone, the splotches looked cartoonish and gruesome - not to mention, Sherlock thought blandly, terribly ordinary: just like those of any murder.

Perhaps slightly less ordinary were the shards broken glass covering Moriarty's prone form (courtesy of Sherlock's precise aim): impossibly tiny slices and slivers, shining like stardust, the milk long gone but its residue remaining - a bright white speckled with blood and brain matter, specimens on microscope slides.

John's milk, half finished, had been gracefully placed on the floor next to the consulting criminal's body. Sherlock glanced at it again; he knew from seeing the future (the possible future, rather, from which he and the Doctor had just come...the previous future Sherlock wanted so desperately to avoid...) that it hadn't been poisoned or drugged in any way, but he still longed to take a sample just to be sure. He would watched John closely for any deleterious effects.

But at the moment, John did not appear to be ill or dying. Sherlock could not see properly, of course - he'd need to scrutinise his colleague (_friend_) up close to really be sure of any significant physical changes. Flawless deduction at this proximity was unlikely at best. From a distance, however, the detective was able to take note of John's pin-straight pose, clasped hands, unfamiliar clothes. The army doctor was calm, blood-stained, sharp-angled and pensive.

Sherlock did not know why, but he felt a desire to look away. He fought it.

"Go talk to him," the detective said roughly to the Doctor, eyes not leaving John's face.

"I'm not sure I'm who he really needs," the Doctor replied. Gently, with practised ease, he pried the gun from Sherlock's hands.

"My bedside manner leaves much to be desired," Sherlock muttered.

The Doctor smiled. "I'd imagine he knows that, and doesn't desire anything beyond what you can give," he said. "Go."

Sherlock walked over to John, heart-rate increasing incrementally with every step._ Rush of adrenalin_, he noted absently. Peculiar. He'd killed a man and, predictably, felt nothing, but now he was experiencing the tell-tale responses ordinary humans attributed to stimuli provoking fear and excitement at the thought of talking to his friend:_ pupils dilated, palms sweating, hands trembling, blood pounding in his temples -_

His automatic nervous system was reacting to this movement as if - well, if Sherlock hadn't known better, he would have said he was afraid.

"How long," he murmured impassively, upon reaching John and the deceased consulting criminal.

John didn't look up. "The whole process began two weeks and a day ago," he said precisely. "I didn't know for sure it would be today, but I knew it was coming. He was almost romantic in how he dropped hints."

A strange expression passed over John's features. Then he smiled and Sherlock noted, absently, that it was very out of place when the man was perched over a corpse and partially covered in its blood. _Perhaps that's what John always meant when he warned me about 'Not good,' _Sherlock mused.

"I suspect that's why the Doctor came to find you?" John asked, but his tone did not suggest it was a question.

Sherlock answered anyway. "Yes."

He looked at John, now that he finally had at his disposal the privilege of proximity, and realised this was the first time he'd actually seen him in three years - not on CCTV, not from the TARDIS window, but truly seen him - and he observed every inch.

_Gaping collar, likely lost about two stone but hasn't had time or desire to buy new clothes - know he still keeps clinic hours and is employed by Lestrade (too little physical evidence on clothes, shoes, or body - **why? **- to garner information off person but surveillance shots show evidence of daily walk and banking information shows cheques deposited and made payable out to one John Watson funded by the NHS), so while he is not exactly drowning in quid he is making more than enough to fund a new wardrobe if he so chose. Therefore the weight loss is neither intentional nor something he expects to last and in the meanwhile appearance does not matter to him. It has been slow and steady; friends and colleagues who seem him daily likely haven't noticed due to constant exposure and the incremental nature of the change. No one has said anything to him.  
><em>

Sherlock quickly moved on, feeling uncomfortable.

_On clothes - not his; follow his style but the blend is too fine and the material too expensive. Also rarely wears that shade of blue. Likely came with only one set of clothing: that is, the one he was wearing, despite the fact he intimated earlier it was not a surprise and he even suspected the time-frame of his abduction. He still bore reluctance in coming and did not pack a satchel. Moriarty, enjoying the idea of conquest and theatrics and roleplay (and with a deep appreciation for luxury and expensive taste), would almost certainly object to "courting" someone beneath his status. He would dress John before beginning._

Sherlock swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

_Eyes - tired and pained, pupils dilated but not unnaturally so. No more so than is to be expected in this light; therefore John is neither in undue agony nor on heavy analgesics. Likely was not tortured, then; pain is chronic - both physical and psychosomatic. Exhaustion is chronic - nightmares, sleep deprivation. _

_Hair - longer, at least 15 cm longer; he hasn't cut it in the last six months. _

However, Sherlock paused, thinking , it might have actually been more than six; while acute activation of the sympathetic system was harmless, chronic excess of catecholamine hormones such as adrenaline forced the body to ignore "lesser" functions like maintaining health nail and hair growth in favour of the more critical ones, such as sustaining proper heart and lung function. This excess could be brought on by situations such as prolonged starvation (Sherlock absently put a tick next to that box) and ongoing stress (Sherlock put a tick next to that one too).

He swallowed again, roughly, cutting off that train of thought. For some reason, he didn't want to deduce anymore.

"I had a plan, you know," he said, voice betraying nothing. "I actually had a cunning plan - a brilliant plan - I had gathered forces - "

John looked up at him. Sherlock looked away.

"I had a plan," he said again, more fiercely this time. "And then you, you had to ruin it all by bloody going and getting yourself kidnapped!"

"I've only been gone a few hours," John said, giving him a penetrating look.

"No! Well - this time, yes," Sherlock replied, gritting his teeth. "But that's because we stopped you - " He broke off and took a calming breath. His chest actually hurt now, and he didn't know why.

He hated not knowing why.

"_How could you do this to me?_" he finally hissed. His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried. "_How could you be so selfish?_"

John was silent for several painful minutes. Then, he began to laugh. It wasn't a mocking laugh - it was soft and a bit broken and terribly, genuinely amused all at once. That only made it worse. "Can you honestly say you wouldn't have done the same as me?" the army doctor inquired. "Really, be real with me. Can you tell me in no uncertain terms, no holds barred, you wouldn't have done the same if he came to you? Because let's face it - you have a shit track record of turning down dates with psychopaths."

Sherlock felt sick. "I had a plan," he said again.

"I bet it was a good plan," John agreed easily, and Sherlock wanted to shake him until he was nothing but a pile of bones and dust.

_Heartrate increasing breath intake ragged dizziness vertigo muscles twitching body temperature rising sweat glands overproducing temples-pounding-__**pressure-building-behind-eyes**_-

There was something foreign on his cheek. It felt...wet.

John wasn't laughing anymore. He looked curious and worried, and Sherlock realised, in the strange way people realise sometimes (_"one even grew used to it, fond of it, overlooking its presence but noticing its absence"_) that this was the first real indication he'd seen all evening that his John was still in there. That he wasn't just a sociopath in John's body.

Sherlock didn't know if it comforted him or not.

John gracefully stepped over Moriarty's prone form and approached Sherlock. Saying nothing, he reached one bloodied finger up to Sherlock's cheek and wiped the tear away.

"That was..." Sherlock grimaced, utterly repulsed. "Completely uncalled for."

John smiled slightly, challengingly. "It was symbolic."

"It was unhygienic," Sherlock snapped, heart hammering.

"You don't care about the blood and you know it," John scoffed. "You've had far worse on that face, and no, not an innuendo." Sherlock grimaced again. "What's different is that I put it there. And now you feel marked. But that's _not_ what it was about."

Sherlock scrubbed furiously at his cheek. "What, then? What was it about?"

John grinned. "God, Sherlock. You're so _brilliant _when it comes to logic and science but you're rubbish at emotional interpretation. I've got faith in you though. If anyone can suss this, it's you." He paused. "Or Molly Hooper. She'd know about feelings and I imagine you two have got quite close."

And with a smile, he turned to go. "Coming?" he asked. "I have a few days left of my holiday. I'm in Spain."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You're also predictable," he replied.

"Naturally," John said. "It wouldn't do to arouse suspicion by doing something out of character. So I'm in Spain. Which gives us the perfect excuse to be wherever we'd like."

"I suppose he's offered us transport, then?" Sherlock gestured to the Doctor.

John nodded again. "Yep. There's some stuff to clear up first back at the flat, but then I'd say a holiday would be prudent."

They both stared at Moriarty's body.

Sherlock frowned. "Yes," he said impassively. "Mini-break would be best." Then looked critically at his friend. "He kidnapped you. Is there some sort of procedure or protocol one follows after such an event? Beyond police intervention, obviously."

"Yes, I'd imagine there are steps one could take if one needed them."

"Ah," Sherlock said, feeling a touch more at ease.

John smiled genuinely. "I'm rather used to it by now," he said. "I'd even begun to miss it! Although it did come at the most inopportune time..."

"It does rather cut our holiday short," Sherlock agreed with an elegant shrug.

"Right," said John, game face on. "So we likely have - what - 10 minutes until the Met show? - and there are at least eight bodies in here, and you've got an unregistered gun, and there seems to be the blood of a famous and already-deceased man on my hands and your cheek."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Commence operation not-Spain immediately," he intoned.

John thought for a second. "So, Teneferos V, then?" he suggested.

"Speaking in tongues, John?" Sherlock stared at him piercingly. "I can have a quality exorcist dispatched in seconds should you have need. Really. Just say the word."

John quirked a smile, and expounded, "You said it yourself. Not-Spain. The Doctor can take us anywhere. I don't know about you but I'm knackered and would love a cup of coffee, so how about we go back to the flat, tidy a bit and go for a nice cuppa in an out of the way caf' on Teneferos V. We could do with a bit of change and balance; I've never been but the Doctor says it's brilliant."

Sherlock gazed at him suspiciously.

John's eyes widened.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "I see what the issue is. I just assumed because he'd taken you to the future - I thought you knew. But I suppose he told you and you didn't believe him. That sounds like something you'd do."

"It is scientifically implausible for us to travel between galaxies and universes," Sherlock snapped.

"Yes," John agreed, "but you yourself just said it perfectly: _implausible._ Not impossible."

"Only because one would be a fool to say _anything_ is truly, irrefutably impossible," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "But that only suggests there is still a one-in-a-million chance, or that the theory has not been disproved. You cannot win an argument on basis of the idea something is impossible simply because it has not been yet proved possible, yes, it's true. But all that being said, _the Doctor cannot take us to a cafe on a planet whose name sounds like it's out of the_ _Iliad_."

"Well, when you say it like that, it sounds like an _epic_ challenge indeed," came the Doctor's voice from behind them.

Sherlock's eyes slid to the man who was leaning against the wall, smiling in a tight, forced way.

The Doctor pushed off the wall and strode over purposefully. "I would like to convince you, Sherlock Holmes. I proved you wrong about time travel, so why not this? Just a few days. You look like you could do with a bit of a holiday. But which I mean to say, you look like you could do with some running round and shooting and conflict that's not got you at the epicentre for a change. It's not your fault, it's in your job description - you happen to be at the epicentre quite a lot. But sometimes a bit of role reversal does the soul good, eh?"

John ducked his head to hide a smirk. "Right. So, mind giving us a lift to 221B?" he asked the Doctor politely. "Sorry for the inconvenience. I just don't fancy prison at the moment. Besides, I don't particularly want to be here to pick up the pieces when Lestrade's head explodes."

The Doctor nodded. There was a strange stiffness to it, a formality that hadn't there before. As if he was trying and failing to mask discomfort.

"Off we pop, then," he beamed, the smile not reaching his eyes.

Sherlock walked into the police box with John, every so often surreptitiously touching his bloodied cheek and sneaking glances back at the Doctor, who followed behind them at a distance and had his head in his hands, as if digging the heels of his palms deep into his forehead would somehow be enough to make him forget.

* * *

><p>Destroying the evidence in the flat was surprisingly easy, and Sherlock was vaguely impressed with John's ability and knowledge when it came to the practice. Long before Sherlock told him, John knew which of Moriarty's presents could or could not be burnt (and what to do with the ashes afterward), and how to dispose of sensitive documents and scramble the surveillance cameras so they played interspliced clips of John's movements over the past six months. It was not for Mycroft's benefit this time, however, as the elder Holmes already knew what John and Sherlock had done. The objective was more to distract any remaining henchmen of Moriarty's, if Sherlock had somehow missed them, and would at least momentarily throw off their scent until Sherlock's state of life was made public.<p>

However, it did have the added disadvantage of letting Mycroft know John was capable of such reprogramming. He hoped Mycroft would assume Sherlock or the Doctor had done it.

John might not have been a genius, it was true, but he was _quick. _He was sharp and he remembered things with ease and he analysed a situation thoroughly but swiftly before going in to rectify it.

Sherlock saw, now, what the Doctor had meant.

It was strange and fascinating and disturbing to be operating nearly in sync with someone else besides Mycroft, Mummy, and Moriarty (or the Doctor, he supposed) for a change. Sherlock wasn't sure if he liked it, yet. He was used to being the best - the Lonely Only One. The misunderstood, tragic genius with no one to relate to. And now - now he did have someone, and he wasn't solitary, and he was still the best but in some ways John was better if only because he wasn't a sociopath -

Sherlock went to the washroom and started gathering the incriminating things. As he reached up to open the cupboard behind the mirror, he caught sight of the blood on his cheek again. He growled and scrubbed furiously at it with a flannel and soap.

"Sherlock, come on," John said impatiently from the doorway.

Sherlock narrowly refrained from jumping; he hadn't noticed the other man's approach. _Stupid_, he admonished himself. _You must be aware of your surroundings at all times. _He whirled on John. "Why did you do it?" he demanded suddenly, as if that branch of scare-tactic interrogation could possibly be effective on a man who had lived with him for years. "Tell me!"

John gave him a Look that clearly said, _You're smarter than this. _

Sherlock sneered but dropped the subject.

With a gesture that was both elegant and irritated, he bade Sherlock follow him to the door. "The Doctor's waiting."

* * *

><p>"Admit it."<p>

Sherlock sniffed. "Don't know what you're talking about."

The Doctor smirked. "Go on, admit it!"

Sherlock huffed. "Fine!" he said, throwing his hands up in irritation. "Although I should have relinquished my prejudices long ago when I first stepped into this thing, despite the fact you took me to a different time I continued to maintain this was some sort of scientific trick and/or glorified flying machine. But yes, alright, fine: I finally concede that you are actually an alien with a time-and-space-travelling police box in converse to my original assessment of you which may or may not have included the conclusions 'deluded,' 'undeservedly grandiose,' and 'human.'"

"Those aren't conclusions," the Doctor argued helpfully, "they're _adjectives. _Adjectives, being social constructs and therefore subjective, can be attached and detached and reattached and preattached to the existing facts to change their reception at any given time or place."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Plausible," he said doubtfully as they stared out the TARDIS window and into the vastness of space. "I operate under the doctrines of science and deduction, Doctor. I don't care for spin, perspective or subjectivity unless it is crucial I do so."

"But you're 'operating' with people," the Doctor replied. He scrutinised the detective's impassive face. "People are, by nature, subjective, and that's crucial to remember. People are not predictable."

Sherlock made a soft noise of disagreement. "People are very much predictable, Doctor. Once you deduce the basic facts - "

"Yes, alright, if you know someone's culture you might assume a certain set of social norms; a sect of religion, and one's degree of devotion to it, could give you insight into family dynamic. It's true, yes, broadly speaking, sentient beings in groups will behave as other members of the group do, whether consciously through social pressure, or unconsciously through rearing and brainwashing, and so a slight done to one member will likely elicit a similar reaction if done to another - but _only when you're operating on those basic assumptions!_" The Doctor was grinning from ear to ear, now, voice filled with exhilaration. "You call them petty, boring, dull, but you miss the nuances, Sherlock, and oh, the nuances are key! Nuances and exceptions. Yes, it sounds 'predictable' for someone to cry looking at an old photograph or tarnished ring and you could deduce in half a second who they're crying over, how long it's been and what specifically made them revisit the memory now. But I bet you more pounds than Mycroft sees in a year you couldn't _actually_ - I meant _really, good and truly_ - aptly tell them _why_."

Sherlock was offended. "I could so! I've done it loads of times."

"Have you, though?" the Doctor asked. "Think about it, really think, because these people you see as so pedestrian, so plebeian, are in truth incredibly stronger and more fragile and impossibly more intricate and ugly and difficult and brilliant than you give them credit for. And you miss all that if it's nothing but you dully saying to yourself: _Fact - her husband went off to war. Fact - she had a fight with him just prior to his departure. Fact - he hasn't been in touch for a week. Deduction - she is terrified he's dead and no one has let her know, and she feels guilty and doesn't want the last words she said to him to be ones of cruelty. _Sounds very simple, right?"

Sherlock watched him, eyes narrowed. "Go on," he said suspiciously.

The Doctor grinned. "Well, it's just - okay, sometimes simple is good; and then, sometimes simple is only _good enough_. In many cases, because time and events and perception are so complex, the conclusion might be closer to: _She is furious with him for not Skyping her and furious with herself for not being more understanding, confused as to why she can't stop crying and violently shoving away any thoughts that something might have happened._ What you and I said are close in description, but not quite the same thing because mine is more thorough. Yours is a generalisation, an oversimplification that assumes remorse because that's what a person in her situation is _supposed _to feel - but what if she, as a person, has not yet felt that remorse? What if she may never in future, either? What if there is absolutely nothing wrong with that, and her response _is just as predictable_ but it's overlooked because it's not presupposed?"

Sherlock hated this man sometimes.

"Mine gives her room to breathe," the Doctor went on, oblivious to Sherlock's annoyance. "Room to feel two things at once - regret and anger - and patently _not _feel as well - fear. The beauty of it is, that happens _all the time! _Human motive is murky as hell, because they're feeling so much all at once - and most of them don't even know they're doing it! As a very good man said once," the Doctor quirked a smile, "Humans are incongruous, and if you're holding out for predictability you're going to be sorely disappointed."

Eyes still narrowed, Sherlock glanced over at John, who was fiddling with something several paces out of earshot. "He?" the detective murmured.

The Doctor nodded minutely.

"He's..." Sherlock broke off, unsure how to finished.

"You'll ease into it," the Doctor reassured him quietly.

Sherlock gave him an impassive look. "I suppose. It's not as if I have illusions he'll change. Not after three years of..." he cleared his throat. "Not after so much practice."

"Point," the Doctor conceded. "I doubt he'll go back to how he was. But you may find he's still the same man - just...sharper, and harsher at times. He's more sarcastic and can be vicious. But he's also loyal and loving and warm, and you can nurture that side."

"Me?" Sherlock very nearly laughed.

The Doctored levelled a look at him. It felt like a challenge.

"See, I have this theory," the Time Lord said, lips twisting once more into a smile, "that you've got a sort of inverse-effect on humanity."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but felt the tell-tale signs of a smile tugging at his lips too. "Contrary to your belief, not everyone I meet immediately wants to go help an old woman cross the street in a feeble attempt to wash away the stench of my baby's blood cologne. Their do-gooder natures don't suddenly skyrocket simply because I went grave-robbing, or insulted someone who did nothing wrong, or forgot to say thank you when Molly let me nick a few spare parts off some John Doe in Bart's."

The Doctor laughed. "Maybe not, not. But you do make them want to desperately prove you wrong - well, that and strangle you - "

He patently ignored Sherlock's muttered, "Feeling's mutual."

"- and what better way to do that than by being and doing exactly what you said they wouldn't and couldn't?"

"Now _that _is predictable," Sherlock sneered, but that stirring was back in his chest.

The Doctor smiled mysteriously. "You'd think so, wouldn't you. But it's deceptively simple, isn't it, being the other half of a debate - countering someone's missteps, rebutting their attacks. It grows old, for most. They lose the thrill of it. Rebellious teenagers grow up and stop trying to fight against their parents all the time; they move away or they learn new tactics, like tacit agreement. But not you. Why? Why do you love an argument? And him. For all his patience and long suffering, why does he love a good fight? Think, now. Really think about it. How many people do you know who actually, really and thoroughly, are contrary to a T - maybe so much so that it defines them in ways you'd overlook?"

"I was wrong," Sherlock muttered. "You're still deluded and grandiose."

The Doctor grinned. "But not undeservedly so," he observed.

Sherlock said nothing.

"Give it some more thought," the Doctor said, clapping him on the shoulder again and walking over to John.

* * *

><p>"Why did you do it?" Sherlock asked against, but quietly this time, seriously.<p>

John took a casual sip of his Shadow tea, admiring the alien beings and surroundings of the planet appreciatively before turning back to his friend. "Sherlock. You know yourself, and you know me. Think about it."

Sherlock stared furiously at a gorgeous green-skinned woman taking a sip of her drink. She was laughing about something inconsequential and her date - obviously shag buddy, by body language - leaned in close to whisper something in her ear, and he tried to ignore the fact that John now had an uncanny ability to make him feel as though he'd been kicked in the stomach.

_Why did he still not understand?_

* * *

><p>That night,back on the TARDIS, he couldn't sleep.<p>

He tiptoed from his room and padded silently round the labyrinthine corridors, exploring each crevice. He paused several feet away, though, when he heard voices.

"Does anyone ever ask you how you feel?"

Curiosity saturated John's tone. Some concern, yes, but mostly curiosity and it made Sherlock think back to the days when concern was the only thing he heard. It usually annoyed him. Now? He wasn't sure.

The Doctor didn't seem fussed, however. "Depends on who I'm travelling with," he answered easily enough. "Some of them don't _stop _ asking; some can't be bothered to start. And some intimate their concern in other non-verbal ways. It just helps having a ear willing to take a rambling head-on, you see; I don't need or want much in the way of human psychiatry."

John laughed. "I imagine my brain would turn to mush."

"Goo's the more appropriate scientific term," the Doctor said frankly, "but yes, just a bit straddling the line between liquid and solid. Typical response."

The was a long silence.

"You're thinking of someone," John observed softly.

"Time Lord-Human Metacrisis, first of her kind, completely destroyed her mind, of course, until I saved her," the Doctor replied, voice oddly tight.

"...by making her human again." John hmm'd thoughtfully.

"There's nothing wrong with being human," the Doctor pointed out.

"What? No, of course not," John replied. "It's just, if you had one person left in the entire world - apart from your beloved villain, that is - who finally understood you and you could connect with, a liaison to a world you vaguely understood but still didn't Understand, why would you ruin that?"

"Villain?" the Doctor asked wryly.

"There's always a villain. And he'd have to match wits with you, so he's have to be alien, most likely a Time Lord. Likely you grew up as mates and he betrayed you. Isn't that always how it goes?"

Sherlock was almost impressed.

"It is," the Doctor agreed thoughtfully. "He's dead now."

"I very much doubt that. And so do you," John said simply. "But we've strayed. This woman. Why would you ruin that?"

"Because it was killing her," the Doctor said, as if John were a moron.

John made another noise, this time more sceptical. "Maybe it was. But someone with your knowledge - and no time constraints and all this technology and access to all of space and every stasis lock you could get your hands on, if she was really deteriorating so rapidly - you _could_ have changed her, saved her. I'm guessing from that stricken look on your face that she more than vehemently made herself clear that she wanted to come with you, stay changed. She had made herself clear, but you made the choice for her. Was it because you didn't think it was safe or you genuinely believed there was nothing you could do?"

"My mind in a human body..." the Doctor took a shaky breath. "There really _was _nothing I could do. She wasn't built for it."

John sounded highly doubtful now. "In her current form, no, naturally. But you didn't even stop to think of alternatives. Combinations, transformations, hybrids. You wanted her to stay human and unaware, maybe because you thought she'd be happier or safer...maybe because you couldn't stand seeing her and not recognising her. Maybe because you felt something pure had been tainted. Whatever the reason, though, you went back on her wishes without her consent - as if she were a child unfit to decide for herself, or you were too rife with guilt to live with what you'd done."

"I wanted her to live an ordinary, happy life," the Doctor growled.

"She was happy with _you,_" John stressed. "Just as she was. There are time locks, capsules, I've seen them - you are a quick thinker; you could have saved her. I honestly believe you didn't want to. Because it was just too terrifying knowing that in your 900+ years of searching you had only had a handful of people understand you, and the thought of someone actually knowing again...that was too much. Because what if you lost her? She was mortal, after all. She wouldn't regenerate. And that would kill you. Because you've never really been understood by many, have you, Doctor? You don't even use your real name. 900+ years is an awful long time to not connect with someone, human or Time Lord, but factoring in your eleven completely different incarnations but your enduring trait of reservedness when it comes to interpersonal relations, I posit you've had fleeting human connections - yes, you remember every companion you've ever had, but how many have you really _connected _with? One? Two? Three would be pushing it, but I could see that happening - and two Time Lords, one of whom has tried multiple times to kill you. Various incarnations found various things appealing in each one but nothing so much as their strength and their fragility and - ultimately - their ability to love. Their goodness. Their absence of darkness. You were desperate for them to balance you out, Doctor, because you really are a good man but you're terribly afraid of going too far and stepping over the line."

He paused. There was a deafening silence.

Sherlock stepped closer, not daring to miss John's next words.

"I know this thing scares you, this merge, this hybrid I created. I know you see yourself in him and you see her in me. But just stop for a second and think how magical it might have been if you could have been if you'd had someone like this. Not that someone you're shagging - " the Doctor made a strangled noise and John stifled a laugh, " - aha! I knew it! I knew one of those 'connections' was...Biblical. But anyway, no, I mean a...mate. A proper mate. Someone you could have talked Time Lordy stuff to but who could also go down the pubs with you and watch the football and show you a slice of her world, just like you showed her the stars."

John cleared his throat and continued softly. "That's what I want with him."

"Tell me, John," the Doctor said, sotto voice, "If you could go back, keep it all from happening, would you? Forget what I said for a second about crossing timestreams creating tears in the skin of the universe - "

" - which obviously you've done, or else your voice would not have just gone brisk just then but rather would have stayed matter-of-fact - "

" - yes, well, tale for another time," the Doctor said dismissively. He sounded like he was warring between being peeved and amused. "If you could, would you?"

John paused to think. "No," he said at length. "People need to grieve and make mistakes - "

" - and have it off with criminal masterminds - "

" - Oi! We _weren't_ having it off. Nothing of the sort," John said with a snort.

Sherlock was ashamed at how relieved he felt.

"I just...I wanted to protect him from Sherlock, keep him distracted," John said simply. "And to protect him from himself. God, he's bloody dangerous when he's bored. And...fascinating too. And part of me needed that thrill. It felt intoxicating it felt like..."

"Home," the Doctor finished.

"Yeah."

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes.

"He's terrified," John said finally, breaking the calm.

It didn't take a genius to figure out they'd switched subjects, but Sherlock was oddly impressed (read: irritated) by John's ability to use as few proper nouns as possible in his speech. He also felt the need to lean in closer, as this conversation was obviously about him and therefore very important.

"He isn't," the Doctor argued with a mildness that felt out of place. "He's confused, and he hates being confused, so he's miffed."

"Yes," John said blandly. "And 'miffed' is Sherlockese for 'repression of something big, black and furry with glowing eyes and six inch fangs.' In this case, fear. So how do I convince him he's not in over his head?"

"You appeal to his humanity," the Doctor replied.

"Yes, of course. How elementary," John said.

Just outside the Library door, Sherlock scowled.

* * *

><p>"I binned your fingers," John said unceremoniously, not looking up from the crossword as Sherlock opened the fridge at 221B. "When you were away."<p>

Sherlock frowned. "Right. I suppose the rate of human decomposition would necessitate such an action," he replied.

He understood, but he didn't have to _like_ it.

"John," he said, mouth suddenly dry. _Heartrate increasing blood flowing to extremities pupils dilating excitatory response __**fear?**__ no - __**nervousness?**__ perhaps - __**source of danger?**__ unknown -_

"That moment in the warehouse."

John looked up, a surprised look passing his features. "I'm surprised you haven't deleted it by now."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Not for lack of trying. He really might have done, too, except it was bloody impossible to delete something John Watson _refused _to tell him. Then it just became an insufferable game.

And John _knew_ that.

"John," he said. "It could be important."

John cocked his head to the side, staring into Sherlock's eyes. Like an X-ray machine. Sherlock felt...stripped and vulnerable, but he forced himself to stand his ground - albeit with the haughtiest expression he could muster up.

"Sherlock, what were you doing just before I touched you?" John asked quietly.

"Speaking?" Sherlock replied, looking at John as though he were mentally deficient.

But John wasn't mentally deficient, and that was the problem.

"No," John said patiently. "You were crying."

"Something in my eye."

"Crying."

"One tear."

"Crying."

"Lacrimation!" Sherlock finally snapped. "As a medical practitioner you may have heard of the phenomenon! You discredit my general knowledge if you attempt to label and pidgeon-hole me by giving meaning to a physical response when it has none; you know any secretion of liquid from the lacrimal apparatus fits into three categories - basal, reflexive and psych. And, if legend is to be believed, you know _me_ as well, and how I think: would it not be safer to say that tears designed to lubricate the eye or rid it of irritants are far more likely than those caused by emotional distress?"

John was still looking at him with that unyielding patience.

"Sure," he said easily, "Of course it would be safer. It would also have the tremendous benefit of not being true."

Sherlock turned away and walked primly back to the kitchen.

"You idiot," John said with a laugh, and Sherlock whirled around to stare at him. "All this time, and that gigantic brain of yours and you still haven't got it."

Sherlock's chest felt tight.

"Go on, then," he said mockingly. "What did I miss?"

"Think about it," John replied. "Don't just idly muse, skim, then file away for later. I mean really _think._ I told you already I wasn't marking you with Moriarty's blood. I made a huge point, in fact, of coming back here and destroying everything he gave me. I never grieved for him despite my growing affection for him. Why?"

"Because you're bloody mad," Sherlock muttered, but there was no heat in it. Frankly, madness did not unnerve him.

John shook his head impatiently. Sherlock wondered, idly, if that was how _he _looked when _John_ simply hadn't understood.

"Sherlock, don't be dense," John said shortly. "_Think._"

_**Fact - **__John had, at that moment, interpreted Sherlock's lacrimation response to be one born of psych tears. His hands were bloody from trying to stop Moriarty's bleeding. Upon seeing Sherlock's tears - what John interpreted as Sherlock's first emotional response in the whole of their relationship - he moved to do what anyone in his position would: brush the tears away._

_**Fact -**__ Society dictates the gesture was intimate and loving. Sherlock did not like intimacy._

_**Fact - **__Society also dictates the gesture was disturbing, given the blood. Sherlock did not mind blood, though he minded that it was Moriarty's and that it stained John's hands._

_**Fact -**__ John has always cared about societal constraints but in that moment did not; in the past, he put Sherlock's comfort above his own; in that moment, he put the __**act **__of comforting Sherlock - despite the detective's discomfort - above all possible detriments to his social perception. _

_**Fact - **__He placed greater emphasis on expressing this support to Sherlock than on Sherlock's comfort with the fact John cared, or with the method he employed. _

Sherlock's mind whirled. In that moment, John's behaviour had reflected that he valued Sherlock more highly than he did his previous ideals: more than social convention, public opinion, even Sherlock's boundaries and personal space - an understandable breach, given how often Sherlock had invaded John's. It also asserted John's standing in the relationship: _"you will attempt to take advantage of me and that's fine; but don't expect me to just roll over - it's a two-way street."_

_**Deduction -** Sherlock means more to John than anything. Things are different now. John is Sherlock's Metacrisis. _

John was gazing at him steadily, eyes narrowed, lips curled slightly in a challenge. "Finally got there, did you?"

Sherlock sat down on the couch, not sure what to feel.

"Yes." He found his throat tightened and he struggled for words.

John's smile grew. "Crap telly?" he invited. With a gracefulness Sherlock recognised and found both disturbing and comforting, the army doctor reached out to snag the remote and switch on the television. Sherlock gave him a calculating stare. "I figure...Neither of us is dying, there's no rush. Let's just forget for tonight."

Sherlock nodded once. "_Britain's Got Talent, _then?" he asked casually.

"Oh, is that on tonight?" John sounded pleased. "Rather lost track of time."

Sherlock exhaled softly, feeling something uncoil in his stomach - something he could not, for once, explain through deduction and silence. He looked over at John and felt -

"Home," the other man said aloud easily, not even looking at him. "What you're feeling right now. Home, isn't it?"

Sherlook stared, fascinated. "Am I always this presumptuous?" he breathed, intoxicated.

John turned to him, grinning. "This is you diluted."

Sherlock felt exhilarated. "Oh, this more than makes up for your kidnapping, John."

"Glad to hear it," John deadpanned.

* * *

><p>All night long, by the glow of the telly, they drank tea and laughed and didn't talk - and it was the best feeling in the world.<p>

Yes, naturally, there were still so many things Sherlock didn't understand, even with his formidable intelligence. Mycroft's involvement. How the Doctor found him. Why Moriarty knew so much. Lestrade's idiotic consent to John's request for an impromptu three week holiday.

And how John had become what he did, and whether they could still be what they were now that so much had changed.

But Sherlock wasn't terribly worried. John was still John; he was just Sherlock now, as well. And if Sherlock were really honest with himself, he suspected he'd been a bit John himself for years now.

The Doctor, for all his maudlin and melodramatic notions on human love and life and connections, did have some of it right. People weren't linear. They weren't _always _predictable and idiotic and phenomenally dull. True, 99.9% of the time they weren't to be bothered with but if Sherlock wrote them off every single time, he'd miss it - that fraction of a percent someone wasn't what they seemed and felt something else and didn't behave as planned. And oversight was dangerous.

He spent so much time trying to move quickly, resisting change, running from it - there was always so much _running _- that he never really got to slow down and think properly, even though he was always snapping at people for not thinking enough.

He looked over at John, who was just a bit of everything, and who thought before he spoke but when he spoke it was as if he didn't need to think at all.

"Take a picture," John said absently, "It'll last longer."

Sherlock felt his lips curl into a smile. Odd, really - he'd always been fascinated by John but never quite like this. This was different. It was safety and contentment and surety and danger and anger and excitement.

It was the best mystery he'd ever been gifted. Truly, he wanted to study John for hours.

But luckily, that could wait. He turned back to the telly and smiled.

They had all the time in the world.


End file.
